


Foresight is better than hindsight

by Ghosts_Writer



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: BAMF!John, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Visions, alternative universe, foresight
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-16 11:44:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/861612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghosts_Writer/pseuds/Ghosts_Writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's fall, John tries to deal with his foresight seemingly going out of control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After the fall

**Author's Note:**

> This is something that I'm working on. I'd like to hear what people think of it and if it's worth my time. 
> 
> Some things I want to mention before I start:
> 
> I'm not a native speaker so I'm very sorry for any mistakes I made and I'll be thankful if you point them out to me.  
> I didn't bet a beta yet, so if you want to do it, tell me. Once I know that people are interested I'll get someone to beta it, maybe.  
> This is most definitely going to be slash and probably there will be smut at some point, although it'll be a quite dark story.  
> So, this deals with supernatural powers and man-on-man-action, so if you don't like either of those, leave now.  
> The warning does not apply for the first chapter but will soon.  
> I might be editing the rating, characters, pairings and what-not as I go.
> 
> WIP! I'm going to work on psych ward the next five weeks so I don't know how much I'll get to write. Could be not much, could be a lot.

_The night before he met Sherlock for the first time..._

_His eyes were burning when he woke with a cry. His heart was racing and he could feel sweat drenching his pyjamas. He tried to catch his breath, trying to calm his heart and blend out the pain inside of him but as he collapsed back onto the bed it got the better of him – as every night – and he cried. Why did he have to see all this? Why did he still have to see every soldier fall, even when he was back in London and could do nothing to save them anymore?_

_The night after he met Sherlock for the first time..._

_He woke, but not as usual with a cry or startled. It hadn't been a violent death, although he simply knew it wasn't peaceful either. The woman, dressed in so much pink that even now that he was awake his eyes still hurt a bit, had taken the pill herself somewhat willingly and yet not out of her own reasoning. She had been looking at the man standing with his back to John's view. It was more than looking, she was watching – studying him. Her eyes never leaving him even as she took the pill into her mouth and bit down onto it. She fell to the ground, showing the signs of poisoning and resulting asphyxiation well known to John. He was a little surprised that she used what little strength she had left to carve something into the wooden floor – Rache – and then she was dead and he woke up.  
_

 

The night after Sherlock fell...

John sat on the bed, staring at the wall opposite him. He didn't want to talk, he didn't even want to be here. All he wanted was to go home, but his sister insisted that it wouldn't be good for him.

“John...” she started carefully, “you can't save them all.” 

He snorted. “You really think after being at war and a doctor for so long I'd still think I could save them all?”

She shifted on the chair, trying to get comfortable but her discomfort didn't come from the seating arrangement. “I'm just saying...it's not your fault.”

John rubbed his eyes, trying to stop the tears. “All my life, I've seen people die. People that I didn't know, people that I didn't care about and people that I did care about. Strangers, friends, comrades, our parents. I've seen it all and even if there was no way I could save them, it gave me time to prepare...I'm not prepared now...”

“Foresight is a burden, Johnny,” she said, using his old nickname to calm him, “even if everybody who knows insists it's a gift it really isn't.”

John took a deep breath. Foresight was what drove his sister into drinking. Just as their father. They saw what was going to happen, but rarely enough to be able to stop it. Seeing people die every night was a horrible thing and while he had saved many lives because of his foresight, he would give it all up if it meant having him back. Him, the one person he hadn't seen dying, before he did.

“Dad couldn't save mum, either.” Harry said, her voice low and unstable. 

“But he had seen her...” John muttered and out of the corner of his eyes he could see Harry staring at him.

“What are you saying, Johnny?”

“I didn't see him fall, Harry. The nights before...I've been seeing Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson...and myself. I've seen us all die...but I didn't see him.” he pressed the balls of his hands into his eyes. “I was prepared to die, Harry, but I was not prepared to be left behind.”

She tried to find something to say but for a long time she couldn't do anything but stare at her little brother. He always had the stronger sight and she never envied him for it, not even as kids and now she wondered what it must feel like that for once – probably really the first time in his life – he had to deal with a death he hadn't seen coming.

“Something must have changed.” she said her voice not as strong as she wanted it to be. She hadn't exactly gotten along very well with Sherlock, their only meeting ever ending with Sherlock telling John that she fell off the wagon once again and her hating him for it. However, she had seen the feelings in her brother's eyes that she recognized easily. He looked at Sherlock the same way their father had looked at their mother, and Harry was quite certain the same way she used to look at Clare – still did, if she was honest with herself. If John knew that Harry had split with Clara to prevent one of her one sights from coming true, maybe he'd understand. And because Harry could prevent it, she had trouble understand how hard it was for John that he hadn't even seen it, although she thought she had an idea.

“How could that be, Harry? Sherlock doesn't – didn't have foresight. He couldn't have changed things. Sights can only change if someone with foresight changes things because of what is going to happen.” John argued. He knew with utmost certainty that Sherlock did not have the gift – as their father had called it. If he had John would have seen it in his eyes. Everyone that knows can see it in others.

Harry took a deep breath. “Is there any way that some other foreseer could have changed something?”

John thought about this for a short moment. “No one Sherlock knows has foresight...not that I know of.” He put his head in his hands. “It doesn't make any sense, Harry. Something must have changed, but I don't understand how that can be. He didn't have foresight, I don't think I did anything to change it, at least not intentionally because I wouldn't have known what to do...”

“And you wouldn't have changed it if you had known that he would die.” She finished the sentence that he didn't dare to say. He felt guilty because it wouldn't have only been him that would have died but also Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, but it was obvious to his sister. “It's going to be ok, John. Sleep for a while and once you've gotten your rest, I'm sure you'll make sense of it all. There has to be an explanation.” She stood from the chair and went to kiss his cheek. “I'm sure you won't dream tonight. Nobody does after losing a loved one.”

John nodded and as the door closed behind her, he settled back onto the bed. At least a dreamless night was some comfort to look forward to.


	2. Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It becomes clear to John that something is very off, about Sherlock's death and about his foresight.

_It was dark around him, barely any light reflecting off the bricks on the curved wall. John knew this place but couldn't quite figure out where it was. He heard thuds of feet on wet concrete as they ran towards his location. A moment later, a man, a bald white man in a black tank top and tattooed arms appeared at the other end of the tunnel running straight to where John was standing, but the ex-soldier didn't move. He knew without doubt that while this was real and happening, it wasn't happening right now and not with him being there. The man – John recognized him as the worker at 221 Baker Street when he had hurried to come to Mrs. Hudson's side – stopped when he realized he had run right into a dead end. There were slow steps following him a moment later and as soon as John spotted a dark figure in a long coat, a shot rang through the tunnel._

John jerked awake, sitting upright on the unfamiliar bed. So much for a restful night without vision, he thought bitter. He sat on the edge of the bed, letting his bare feet touch the carpet. It was what he always did, ground himself. Letting himself get back to the real world as soon as he was able to. It hadn't disturbed him to see that man die and therefore he was sure that whoever he was, he deserved it. 

It was quite rare that John saw someone die and didn't care at all. Usually, even if he had never met the person before, he did feel some sympathy but on some occasions and apparently this was one of them, he felt nothing. That man was a stranger to him, had only seen him once, fleetingly in a moment he had different problems on his mind and he even was surprised he remembered him. 

Although the displayed death meant nothing to him, the vision – or the fact that he had a vision at all – had an effect on him. He had just lost a loved one, his loved one, his most loved one – even if he never actually said or did anything to convey those feelings. He was not supposed to have foresight after this. He slowly rose to his feet, testing if his legs would carry him, to make his way through his sister's dark house to the kitchen. He found the necessities to make tea easily enough. The Watson's were an organized family, even if he let it slide a bit since moving in with Sherlock – but then again, tidying up after the consulting detective would have been a full time job on its own, without following him around on crime scenes, chasing suspects through London and to top it off working part-time in surgery. 

The routine of brewing tea was perfect to dull his mind for some blissful moments, making it vacant until he felt his heart explode in his chest as realization hit him. Going through his routine – even in a strange kitchen – he had prepared two cups of tea. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to force down the break down he knew would come sooner or later, but he'd prefer to have once he's alone in his own home and not within hearing distance of his emotional unstable sister. 

He poured the unnecessary tea into the drain, rinsing and drying off the cup quickly before putting it back. He really didn't need to have that conversation in the morning. Settling at the table with his own cup, he put his fingers to the bridge of his nose, trying to figure things out. 

Something had to be totally off. His foresight had tricked him into believing he himself would die, only to be left behind when his loved one died. And then, it wouldn't even leave him alone to mourn, just for one bloody night – he didn't remember when he started to think of his gift like a person but more often than not it did seem to have a mind (and a fucking awful sense of humor sometimes). He had never experienced being wrong before, his visions always coming true, except the ones he had changed himself, of course. He hadn't heard of this before, either, not of sights being changed without the seer's doing or sights right after a traumatic experience as the one he had the day before.

He wondered if his mind had not come to the blissfully ignorant form of unconsciousness that seers tend to fall into after losing someone close to them because he hadn't been home. Maybe, he wondered, Sherlock's death had not yet made it into his subconscious mind, into his inner self, into his soul and he needed to face the cruel reality before he could sleep restfully. That must be it, as unlikely as it sounded, because if he was truly honest with himself, there was this nagging voice in far corners of his mind – speaking to him in a vibrating baritone – saying that maybe, just maybe Sherlock was not dead. No one could be that clever, he thought sourly, and the voice responded he could.

He resisted the urge to slam his fist onto the table, clenching it until the knuckles turned white and his nails dug into his palm. The pain in his chest was very real and somewhere in his brain – the part that was still working properly – was diagnosing himself, making a mental note to keep a check on his vitals to make sure he wouldn't literally die of a broken heart. 

He just wanted to be home. In his flat, his bed. He wanted to hear soft tunes from a violin in the living room, smell something he couldn't place from the kitchen. He wanted to hear snide remarks, yelled insults at the telly, grumbled complaints. He wanted to see gray eyes focused on a microscope, long fingers tuning the strings on the gentle instrument. 

He realized that even if he went back to Baker Street, it wouldn't be home, because home wasn't an address, it wasn't the flat. It was Sherlock. He couldn't go home, never again, and he couldn't hold back his tears any longer. 

 

~°~

 

It had been hours before John found sleep again and when he woke it was almost noon. He felt like crap, worse than waking up with a hang over from hell, worse than waking up in the dry heat of the afghan desert, worse than waking up at an ICU after a gun shot to the shoulder, worse than waking up on any other day of his life. 

Unwillingly he got up and put on his robe, pulling it tight around himself as he slowly made his way downstairs. He had no rush to be faced with his sister and needing to be social. As he reached the bottom of the stairs he could see partly into the living room, and he really only needed to see the metal tip of a very familiar umbrella to know that he had a visitor that he much less wanted to see than his sister.

Gathering his will he straightened to his full height – even if it wasn't much – squared his shoulders and moved into the living room.

“Make it quick, Mycroft.” he said forcefully.

His sister jumped in the other chair, while the older Holmes just turned his head slightly to look at John with a neutral expression. “Jesus, John! Make some noise moving around.” Harry breathed.

John ignored her. “I know that you want to say something, otherwise you wouldn't be here, and I'm pretty sure I don't really want to hear it, so make it quick.” he repeated as he moved to stand before Mycroft, trying not to notice that his leg was awfully stiff today and he was limping ever so slightly.

Mycroft did notice, obviously, as he gave it a passing glance before taking a breath. “I didn't get the chance to talk to you, after what happened. I thought you might want to know what has been found out so far.” Mycroft said without sentiment in his voice or any form of condolence – although, John thought that maybe he should be the one giving condolence, since Mycroft was his brother and he was just his flatmate, even if it really felt wrong to even think that. 

John nodded and as he waited he noticed the glance Mycroft gave his sister. Sighing, John turned to her. “Harry.” he said but she didn't react other than looking at him expectantly. “Would you mind?” he continued as she didn't move.

“Mind what?” she asked, oblivious to what was going on.

“Mycroft won't talk until you leave, and he won't leave until he said what he thinks he needs to say. I've got enough experience dealing with Holmeses, just trust me and please leave us alone.” John replied, hanging onto the social conventions of being nice but barely managing.

“It's my house, you know.” Harry said, looking offended.

“Yes, and I didn't ask to be here. You made me.” John replied, losing what little grip he had on his manners rapidly.

Mycroft was deliberately picking some lint off his trousers as Harry gaped at John. She opened her mouth a couple of times before finally deciding to leave the living room. John dropped himself into her abandoned chair. “So?” he said.

“I know our last meeting wasn't exactly pleasant, John, however, you must realize that these recent events-” 

John raised his hands to cut off Mycroft. “Don't. Just tell me why you came and then leave.”

Mycroft pursed his lips but nodded. “The police searched the roof. They found Moriarty.”

John looked at him with a stony expression. “That explains … nothing. Moriarty? Did Sherlock kill him and then ju-” he broke off the sentence as his throat refused the word to leave it.

“It doesn't appear like that.” Mycroft replied. “It looks like Moriarty shot himself. It does add up and I see no reason to doubt the report. And believe me, I did check myself.”

John ignored the smug undertone and nodded slowly. “So, Moriarty offed himself...that doesn't make sense, does it? If it was obviously suicide, Sherlock had no reason to think that he'd be blamed. Why would he-”

“The police also found Sherlock's phone. He had made a recording.” Mycroft pulled a USB drive from his jacket pocket. “Sherlock's name is cleared, here's a copy.” he held out the stick to John, who remained seated. Mycroft rolled his eyes slightly and put the drive onto the coffee table. He stood and went to the door. “I'll show myself out...you should listen to it.” 

John stayed in the chair long after Mycroft had left the house. He stared at the flash drive, ignoring his sister making more noise than necessary in the kitchen. All the answers to Sherlock's reasoning, possibly all the answers, at least enough to clear his name. One would think that John wouldn't lose any time to listen to it, but he couldn't imagine hearing his voice right now. 

He stood, pushing the USB stick into the pocket of his robe and going upstairs to pack the few things he had brought, determined to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear reader, please leave a comment. 
> 
> Kudos are nice and all but I would really appreciate if you told me what you think...


	3. Visits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Facing cruel reality does not have the effect he's hoping for.   
> And apparently he won't find peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three updates in three days, I'm on fire...
> 
> Just a note because here's where I go off canon (more than just the vision bit). John doesn't leave Baker Street in this, it just makes more sense for me.   
> Also, I am aware that probably more time passed between Sherlock's death and John's goodbye at his grave but what the hell.
> 
> Please review.

John sat in his red, comfortable chair, his bare feet on the carpet staring into the middle distance as his mind was running wild. 

He had hoped that sleeping in his own bed, after facing the empty flat and therefore cruel reality would be what he needed to let his inner self truly understand what happened and finally let him sleep. However, the vision of the night before returned to his unconscious mind, the bald man running to him, turning at the sound of the slow footsteps and then the shot. It was even more real this time and John knew that it would happen soon. 

He wasn't sure why he was seeing this man more than once. Usually he only saw the same people die more than one night if they meant something to him. This man, however, didn't. Why would he see him die twice? 

He sighed and let his head drop to the back of the chair. He so desperately needed a full night sleep but his inner self just wouldn't let him. He shouldn't be seeing unimportant people die more than once. But then, he didn't even see his loved one die at all. He frowned at the ceiling. This was beyond awful sense of humor, this was torture. 

He sat up, feeling frustrated at his gift, at himself, at the world in general. Maybe there was something seriously wrong with him. Maybe his inner self was off, completely off, showing him things that were not true. He wondered if this was how normal people with normal nightmares felt. But then, they wouldn't expect their dreams to come true, would they?

 

~°~

 

7 days later

 

John stared at the screen of his laptop, trying to find the right words to describe his situation. He had sorted through all the websites he knew about foresight – all of them masked as something else – porn mostly and membership-only, of course, but not a single case, no matter how weird they might have been, came close to what he was experiencing. The vision had returned, every night becoming more detailed and still he didn't understand what was so important about this man's death that he kept seeing it. Therefore he had decided to post to a forum but the words wouldn't come to him. 

He had a pseudonym on the website, but one had to register with one's real name, so the administrators could check the seer data-bank. Therefore he was slightly worried that this might all be monitored and he wasn't sure he wanted any involvements of the officials. He was quite happy to have as little contact with them as possible. Also, the news of Sherlock's death were still going round, papers were still writing about it and he even caught a glimps of a telly discussion about what they could do to prevent another fraud detective before he had the chance to change the channel. He didn't need people to figure out just who his beloved one was and pester him with questions about it or worse, insult Sherlock. 

Footsteps on the stairs alerted him to Mrs. Hudson coming up and he quickly closed his browser, shutting down the laptop for good measure as well. Once she was in the door, he turned to look at her, in a nice dress, looking drawn. 

“Are you ready, dear?” she asked, her voice calm but slightly off. 

John took a deep breath and nodded. They went out of the house and into the taxi in silence. John had been a bit shocked when she told him that Sherlock had set it in his Last Will that he would not have a formal funeral. He wanted to be buried without anyone there, and therefore they went to visit his grave for the first time this late. Mrs. Hudson had been not quite friendly towards Mycroft because he had taken such a long time to tell them where to find it, although she apologized right away because Mycroft was Sherlock's brother and of course he had other things on his mind right now than informing Sherlock's landlady and flatmate of this. John however knew that the two of them suffered way more than Mycroft ever could, but he decided to stay quiet, mostly because Mrs. Hudson said _Sherlock_ about ten times and every time he heard his name John's throat would constrict and he felt as if he was choking on his own breath.

The cab came to the cemetery and John dutifully lead Mrs. Hudson towards the black headstone with the golden, minimalistic engraving. He kept himself in check, his admission of being angry a moment when he lost control and he really had to use every bit of strength he still possessed to manage until Mrs. Hudson finally left him alone.

He looked at the headstone and then at turned to check that Mrs. Hudson was out of earshot.

“Um ... mmm. You ... you told me once that you weren’t a hero. Umm ... there were times I didn’t even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man, and the most human ... human being that I’ve ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, so ... There.”

John took a breath, checking over his shoulder again before stepping up to the cold stone, touching it with his fingertips. There was so much that he needed to say. 

“I was so alone, and I owe you so much.”

Another deep breath.

“Okay.”

He turns, starting to walk but then stops, turning back to the grave as he just couldn't let it go.

“No, please, there’s just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t ... be ... dead. Would you do ...? Just for me, just stop it. Stop this.”

Inhaling deeply, trying to will everything away but for a short moment he simply had to let it go and a few sobs escaped him as he cried into his hand. 

Finding his control again, he straightened, standing at attention for a moment if only to calm himself with routine and ceremony. He nodded, more to himself than anything else and turned sharply, walking back to the front gate of the cemetery, hopefully leaving some part of this behind him. 

It would be forever a secret to John that as he walked away, there was a figure, wrapped in a dark coat and blue scarf, standing apart, watching him intently. It would also never be known to him that as soon as he had passed, the man's phone vibrated and he received a text message with a location. _Vauxhall Arches_

 

~°~

 

John sat on the couch, his eyes fixed on the door leading into the bedroom that he had yet to pack up. Mycroft had told him that none of Sherlock's things were of sentimental value to him – and most not of any value at all – and therefore he should decide what to keep and what should be dealt with. However, visiting Sherlock's grave two days ago had done nothing to ease the pain in John's heart, in fact it had only made it brutally real. 

He hadn't dared to go to sleep, almost fearing to see the bald man die again by now, and he hadn't eaten or spoken to anyone. He kept the door closed and locked and ignored Mrs. Hudson, who came knocking every few hours. He drowned his sorrow in whiskey, aware that he was becoming the kind of Watson he'd tried to avoid all his life.

His phone lay on the coffee table but he didn't check the many messages he'd received in the last days. He didn't bother to go on his blog anymore or read his emails. He was perfectly content to just sit on the couch, staring at the remnants of the life he had and loved so much and wait for it to end. 

He let his head drop back, closing his eyes, hoping that he'd had enough alcohol to just die in his sleep as exhaustion took the better of him.

Loud knocking jolted him upright again. He sighed deeply as his heart began to calm after the surprise.

“Go AWAY, Mrs. Hudson!” he yelled and fell back into the cushions.

“John! There are some men that want to talk to you...” he heard her call through the door.

“I don't give a FUCK!” he replied agitated. Couldn't they just let him die in peace?

There was some rustling, some quite distressed but unrecognizable words from Mrs. Hudson, and then the door flew open with a loud bang only to smash into the wall after someone had kicked it open.

John merely flinched, maybe those were some killers sent for him. Now, that would be a pleasant surprise. However, his hope died away as he recognized the face of an old acquaintance and he knew his sister had told on him.

“Jake.” he muttered, defeated as he let his head drop back again. 

The man in the door, tall with short brown hair and a muscular physique stepped further into the room, taking a glance around as another, unknown to John and a good deal shorter than the first, followed.

“That will be all, Mrs. Hudson.” the second man said, closing the broken door into her face as well as it still worked. 

“You're going to pay for that door. I'm not taking that on my rent.” John said calmly.

“Right, because the security deposit was safe until now.” Jake replied, glancing at the smiley face with the bullet holes above John. 

John grinned without humour at the smiley as well. “I assume Harry called you.” he said, still avoiding to look at Jake.

The tall man nodded although he couldn't know if John saw it. “She told us about your trouble. About the unfulfilled sight.”

John inhaled deeply and let it out much slower. “Something changed. Not a big deal.” 

“Of course it is a big deal, John and you know perfectly well that it is.” Jake's voice took on some heat. “A seer like yourself, with a gift as great as yours, everything out of the ordinary is a great deal!”

John put his hands over his eyes. “Jealous?” he couldn't help the teasing. He'd never gotten along with Jake and he knew that the tall man was more than proud of his own gift and envied anyone with more talent. 

His hands were yanked down and he was forced to stand up. Swaying slightly, John tried to fight off the hands of his old class mate. “Fuck off!” 

“You've always been a cry baby.” Jake smirked at John's useless attempts to break free. John might have been a soldier, but Jake had height, muscles and training on him. “You think you're the first to not see his loved one die? Big fucking deal.”

Finally, because Jake allowed it, John stepped away from him and immediately brought some distance between them. “Maybe, but I see them all! I've never missed a death before, Jake. You … you have no idea what it's like. How many do you have? Three or four a year? Some maybe even more than once? I've barely slept a full night since I was eleven!” John yelled. “I see all those people, all those faces that I can never forget, and I just know that I can't stop what will happen most of the time. All those people I don't give a flying fuck about but not the one that I truly love with all my heart. Go on and tell me that you understand!”

Jake changed a look with the other man and then turned back to John, straightening a little to pronounce his tall stature. “The elders want to speak to you.”

“Well, they can bugger off for all I care.” John replied harshly. “You can't make me go!”

“No, we can't make you, but it might be for the best for everyone.” The smaller of the two intruders mentioned.

“Get out. Leave me the hell alone!” John said tiredly and after a moment, and to his great surprise, they actually did. 

Once he heard the front door close, he sank back onto the couch. So, maybe he wouldn't die tonight, he figured. He looked at his phone, seeing the blinking light that announced unread messages he picked it up. Scrolling through he deleted Harry's without checking them, he couldn't deal with his sister after this betrayal right now. He skimmed through the ones from Lestrade and Molly, not bothering to reply to their stated concerns. However, he was surprised to find texts from Mycroft.

_Have you listened to it? MH_

_John, trust me, you should listen to it. MH_

_Call me once you've listened. MH_

_Sherlock wanted you to. MH_

John frowned down at the screen. Four messages from the man that only texted if he couldn't talk? All of them telling him to listen to that recording of Sherlock and Moriarty? So, Sherlock's name had been cleaned with it, what else could be on there that John needed to know so desperately?

John glanced towards his laptop and the USB drive. Maybe he really should listen to it...but as he thought of all the things he could possibly hear, he decided that maybe he was just exhausted enough to have a vision-less sleep and went to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course there's a society of sorts for seers and of course it's regulated. However, I find it very annoying if you describe these things more than once and since John will have to do some explaining in later chapters, I left it out for now. I don't think it's that bad not to know yet.


	4. Explanations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has another vision that gives him the final push to listen to the recording he received from Mycroft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baaam! And another one...
> 
>  
> 
> Ok, people, here's an incentive to leave a comment. For the reunion (of course there will be a reunion, you think I'm writing this without purpose) please comment what you'd prefer. Punch, kiss or third option (if third, please tell me what your idea is...)
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter is mostly the dialogue on the roof. I didn't change anything there, so if you get annoyed, skip a little.

_The room was dark, but John could see enough to make out a man, tied to a chair, barely holding onto consciousness. There was some blood running from his temple, and although John couldn't be sure in this light, he thought it wasn't all that new. The man had been sitting in this chair for quite some time, John could basically feel the thirst and hunger as if it was his own. There were several dark bruises on his face, the shirt that once was light gray was splattered with dark spots. He hadn't seen too much torture but enough to recognize it when seeing it._

_“Where?” A dark voice echoed through the room. Somewhere in the back of his mind John knew that it was familiar but couldn't place it._

_The man in the chair grinned slightly, despite clearly being in the losing position._

_“I can draw this out as long as it takes.” The dark voice said and there's a harsh slap, not with a hand but a riding crop onto the man's arm.”Where would you meet?”_

_“You'll kill me anyway.” the man said, shaking his head. “Why would I talk?”_

_“Maybe I'll show mercy if you do.” The voice said and obviously it was something the tied man was considering. “Was it worth it? Working for Moriarty? Killing for him?” the voice continued. “Money, was all the money in the world worth being here right now?” The riding crop came down again and the man groaned in pain._

_“I... I never killed for him.” the man muttered._

_“Oh, it would have been your first, then. When did he approach you? After your sister was diagnosed with kidney failure? After the Chief Superintendent ignored another one of your requests to become Sergeant? After Lestrade gave you a dress down for messing with evidence? How did he convince you to turn dirty? It wasn't all about money, that's what you told yourself. Money so you could help your sister but that wasn't the real reason, was it? You liked the idea. You wanted to kill the man. You didn't think it would go this way, did you? You didn't expect him to fail...” The riding crop struck the man across the face, breaking the skin on his cheek._

_“He said, he would call...but he didn't...” the man forced out._

_John could hear footsteps, slowly pacing in front of the chair but couldn't make anyone out._

_“Change of plans...he didn't make it off the roof.” The steps stopped. “Well, he did, but not alive anyway...” The tip of the crop was placed under the chin of the battered man, raising it slightly._

_“He said that either I take the shot, or the problem would resolve itself...” the man said without being asked. “He never said that this could happen.”_

_“How awful of the master criminal to not include his minions on every aspect of the plan...it is a horrible thing that you just can't trust them anymore, isn't it? A real shame.” The voice sneered just before the crop came down onto the other cheek. “I tire of this game. Where were you supposed to meet?”_

_John could see the man flinch and assumed the crop had been raised again. “Knightsbridge Hotel...Room three twenty five. The key's in a locker at King's Cross, the key for that is on my key chain...” The man supplied the information quickly, obviously fed up with the beating._

_There was a dark chuckled. “You made it easy. I guess Lestrade was right about you. You just don't have what it takes.”_

_The last thing John saw was a look of pure emotional pain and disappointment cross the man's face before a shot rang through the too small room._

 

Jerking up on his bed, John was breathing a little faster and his ears were ringing, something he was quite used to by now. He has had this vision for three nights by now, the fast successor of the bald, tattooed man and John figured that they had to be linked. At least they were both shot. 

That night, however, was the first time he saw more than the last words spoken to the tortured man. He sat up, putting his feet on the floor to ground him, he put his head in his hand. He ran through the interrogation, because he knew it was just that, and it was obvious that this had to do with Sherlock's death. So, that might be the explanation to why he kept seeing the same death over and over again. They were meaningful to him, because they were linked to Sherlock. 

It still didn't make sense though, if the bald and the tortured men were involved in Sherlock's death, he didn't see how. They couldn't force him to jump by pointing guns at him, could they? Rubbing his eyes, John came to the conclusion that there was only one thing that might help him make sense of all this. He needed to listen to Sherlock's last recording.

After preparing himself a cup of tea, because he was thankful for the distraction more than believing that he'd drink it, he powered up his laptop and put in the USB drive. As it opened, John had to fight himself from closing it right away.

The drive had two files on it. _The roof_. John was certain that this was what had gone down between Sherlock and Moriarty, ultimately leading to both their deaths. The other however, made his heart pound in his chest. _John's ears only_. He swallowed hard and couldn't help but wonder if Sherlock had named the file and if he had, had Mycroft respected his brother's wish?

Summoning whatever reserve strength he had, he double clicked _the roof._

For a long moment there was only white noise and then he could hear, through the rustling of Sherlock's coat, Staying Alive by the Bee Gees.

“Ah, here we are at last – you and me, Sherlock and our problem – the final problem. Staying alive! It's so boring, isn't it?” 

John swallowed at the muffled voice of Moriarty ringing through his speakers. He had so hoped he would never have to hear that voice again.

“It's just .. staying … All my life I've been searching for distractions. You were the best distraction and now I don’t even have you. Because I’ve beaten you. And you know what? In the end it was easy. It was easy. Now I’ve got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. And it turns out you’re ordinary just like all of them. Ah well. Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?”

“Richard Brook.” A soft sob escaped John throat as he heard Sherlock's voice, much clearer than Moriarty's. 

“Nobody seems to get the joke, but you do.” Moriarty mentioned.

“Of course...” Sherlock replied – almost ignoring Moriarty's 'Attaboy'. “Rich Brook in German is Reichen Bach. The Case that made my name.”

“Just trying to have some fun.” Moriarty said, and John would love to wipe that smirk that he knew was there off his face. After a moment Moriarty continued. “Good, you got that, too.” John frowned.

“Beats like digits. Every beat is a one; every rest is a zero. Binary code. That’s why all those assassins tried to save my life. It was hidden on me; hidden inside my head – a few simple lines of computer code that can break into any system.”

“Told all my clients, last one to Sherlock is a sissy.” Came the answer in a dry manner.

“Yes, but now that it's up here, I can use it to alter all the records. I can kill Rich Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty.”

For a moment there was silence after Sherlock's statement.

“No, no, no, no, no, this is too easy! This is too easy!” Moriarty almost cried. “There is no key, DOOFUS! Those digits are meaningless. They’re utterly meaningless. You don’t really think a couple of lines of computer code are gonna crash the world around our ears? I’m disappointed. I’m disappointed in you, ordinary Sherlock.”

“But the rhythm...”

“Partita number one, thank you Johann Sebastian Bach.”

“But then how did...” Sherlock's tone changed, sounding confused now.

“Then how did I break into the Bank, to the Tower, to the Prison? Daylight robbery. All it takes is some willing participants. I knew you’d fall for it. That’s your weakness – you always want everything to be clever. Now, shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building – nice way to do it.” Moriarty explained.

“Do it? Do – do what? Yes, of course. My suicide.” John's breath stopped as he heard Sherlock's words. 

“Genius detective proved to be a fraud.” Moriarty sneered. “I read it in the paper so it must be true. I love newspapers, Fairytales. And pretty Grimm ones, too.”

“I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity.”

“Oh, just kill yourself. It’s a lot less effort...Go on... For me....Pleeeeeease?”

There was some noise that John couldn't pin down.

“You're insane.” Sherlock gritted.

“You're just getting that now?” Moriarty asked surprised. “Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive. Your friends will die if you don't.”

“John.” Sherlock's way of saying his name made John's heart implode in his chest.

“Not just John. Everyone.”

“Mrs. Hudson.”

“Everyone.”

“Lestrade.”

“Three bullets; three gunmen; three victims. There’s no stopping them now. Unless my people see you jump. You can have me arrested; you can torture me; you can do anything you like with me; but nothing’s gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die … unless..”

“...unless I kill myself ; complete your story.”

“You've gotta admit that's sexier.”

“And I die in disgrace.”

“Of course. That’s the point of this...Oh, you’ve got an audience now. ..Off you pop...Go on...I told you how this ends...Your death is the only thing that’s gonna call off the killers. I’m certainly not gonna do it.” 

John bit his lips as the suspense was killing him, although he knew how it ended.

“Would you give me ... one moment, please; one moment of privacy?Please?” Sherlock pleaded, making John's eyes tear up.

“Of course.” Moriarty replied and for a long moment there was silence, and then Sherlock was laughing. “What? What is it? What did I miss?”

“'You’re not going to do it.' So the killers can be called off, then – there’s a recall code or a word or a number. I don’t have to die ... if I've got you.” Sherlock was basically singing now.

“Oh!” Moriarty laughed. “You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?”

“Yes, so do you.”

“Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to.”

“Yes, but I’m not my brother, remember? I am you – prepared to do anything; prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won’t do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you.”

“Naah. You talk big. Naah. You’re ordinary. You’re ordinary – you’re on the side of the angels.”

“Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don’t think for one second that I am one of them.”

“No, you're not.” Moriarty's voice sounded manic. “I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me. You're me! Thank you! Sherlock Holmes. Thank you, bless you...as long as I'm alive, you can save your friends, you've got a way out...well, good luck with that.”

John flinched at the sound of a gun shot close to the microphone. And then there was silence. The recording went on for a while and John waited, impatiently, when suddenly it broke off. He leaned back in his chair, sucking in a breath he hadn't noticed he was holding. It did make more sense now. He saw himself, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade die because that had been Moriarty's plan. He kept seeing the deaths of those two men because they were the killers sent to Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Which meant that there was someone out there taking Moriarty's people down. John immediately thought of Mycroft. However, he also realized that something had gone wrong. Something had not gone according to plan, otherwise they would be dead and Sherlock still alive. 

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Obviously it was Moriarty's plan to have Sherlock kill himself, and everything seemed to go his way. Except when Sherlock figured out that Moriarty could call them off. John's eyes snapped open in realization. Moriarty must have known that he had one flaw in his plan but he didn't know what. _What? What is it? What did I miss?_ Moriarty had sounded desperate as he demanded Sherlock to explain. He knew that there was something off with his plan, something that would result in the three innocent bystanders – so to say - dying instead of Sherlock, and that's why he killed himself. 

Trying to remember it now, he couldn't recall ever getting a good, close up look into Moriarty's eyes. He must have been a seer. Moriarty was a seer and because he changed his vision, John's was changed as well. It was changed just moments before fulfillment, and therefore John had had no chance to see Sherlock die beforehand. His gaze fell upon his computer screen and in a movement too fast to stop himself, he clicked on the other audio file. _John's ears only._

“John,” Sherlock's voice was much clearer than it had been on the roof. He was speaking directly into the microphone, “since you're listening to this, it means that I failed and I'm dead. I didn't mean to cause you any pain and I have enough faith in your own deductive skills to say that you already figured out that I knew that Mrs. Hudson was not dying. It was Moriarty, calling you away so he could end his game with me. I am not quite sure what will transpire but I will make a recording off it.” 

The was a moment of silence, hesitation, which was unusual for the detective. 

“I don't know what I will have to do or to say, therefore I want to make it very clear to you that I did not sent you away the way I did because I do not care about Mrs. Hudson or you or that I don't trust you to have my back, which I always knew you did. I did it to keep you out of harms way. In case I need to say hurtful things, which is quite possible, please remember that this is how I actually think of you. You were my best friend, I always trusted you and I have never been as close to another human being. You were my heart and you completed me. No one ever had an effect on me the way you did. And I never thought I would actually say these words, to no person, and although I knew them to be true for quite a while, I never thought I would say them to you, even through a recording: I love you. Good bye, John.”

John stared at the media player in disbelieve. Love? He loved him? Was this actually happening? He pinched his forearm just to make sure that he was indeed awake. His eyes filled with tears when suddenly there was Sherlock's voice again.

“Mycroft, if you ignored the label and listened in on this, be aware that I give John the explicit order to inflict all kinds of physical pain a medical doctor could think of on you.”

Despite everything, John laughed. Only Sherlock could follow a love declaration with threats of torture.


	5. Restart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new vision start to plague John's dreams
> 
> Also he's trying to get a life again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little something - psych ward is tiring on a mental level.
> 
> I figured that foresight being the only gift is kind of boring, so there's a hint that there's more and John will come around to explain it all in later chapters, don't worry.

_There was a certain atmosphere in abandoned warehouses that John was quite familiar with by now. There were two men, both standing, both pointing guns. It was kind of foggy and John couldn't make out much more than their general forms. He could hear one of them yelling, the other replying in a calm manner, but the words were unrecognizable. John could feel his heart speed up as he tried to clear his vision, tried to get closer, although he knew that it wouldn't work. Rationally, he knew this was a vision, one that wasn't going to happen until maybe two weeks from now, and no matter how hard he tried, he wouldn't get more information, even if he felt the irresistible need to get more._

_He expected a gun shot, obviously, and therefor was taken by surprise as the explosion shook the building._

He found himself on the floor, breathing hard. Only belatedly he realized that he had fallen asleep on the couch again and obviously fell when he woke up. As he tried to push himself up, he realized his arms would not carry his weight, so he simply rolled over onto his back. This particular vision was new and although he had barely seen anything, it really took the better of him. He felt too overwhelmed, he couldn't even cry, his heart was still pounding hard, feeling as if something had a firm grip on it and he could only recall one vision that had ever had such a strong effect on him. The night before Sherlock went off with the cabbie. The night before John changed Sherlock's fate and killed a man so Sherlock could live. 

It took him more than 30 minutes before he trusted his arms and legs and pushing himself back onto the couch. He knew that this would haunt him until the day it finally happened and he was quite certain that this, too, was related to Sherlock's death. The vision of the bald man had appeared for 8 nights, ending the night before a bald, tattooed man – unidentified – had been found shot dead at Vauxhall Arches. The torture scene had been in his nightly dreams for five days before Lestrade called him to tell him that one of his men had been tortured and killed – and apparently he had been working for Moriarty. Greg had been completely thrown by this, by all of this. No disciplinary measures had been taken because the recording had not only cleared Sherlock's name, but also his. However, to know that there was a proverbial bullet with his name on it, inside his office, in the gun of one of his own men, that would probably throw anyone. 

John, admittedly, had to struggle to give a fuck. He didn't really care how Greg, Molly or even Mrs. Hudson were coping. None of them had it as bad as he did, even if it was only obvious to him. None of them had to see Sherlock jump. None of them had to listen to Sherlock's 'note'. None of them loved Sherlock the way he did. And he was pretty sure that Sherlock had not left any of them a personal message telling them that he loved them. 

He pulled the laptop towards him, clicking on the media player and restarting the message. He closed his eyes, letting the vibrating baritone calm his nerves. _I love you._ Those three words were what John clung onto. He knew that Sherlock had died so he could live and if it hadn't been for that knowledge, he wouldn't be alive anymore. Sherlock would not have died for nothing.

 

~°~

 

The same morning...

It had taken some time but John had managed to pull himself up into something that resembled the man he used to be. He finally quit his job, working with Sarah hadn't been easy for a while anyway, and with a CV like his it wasn't horribly hard to get another – better – job. He actually was a bit excited to go back into the OR, he was a surgeon after all and with the thrill of the chase missing, maybe a bit more hectic in his work will keep him focused on other things than his own misery. 

So, within two weeks – faster than anyone was expecting – he had something going on that most people would call life. Although he was seriously lacking sleep, he threw himself into his work, accepting shifts even when he should go home and while most of his co-workers thought him to be simply hard working, there was a simple reason for his over time. The more tired he was when he got home, the less time he had to think and the less time he had to think, the less time he had to break down. 

He'd only just finished his first week at the new job and for once he was quite happy that his supervisor had forced him to take the day off. His latest vision was still heavy on his mind when dawn arrived and he had barely found sleep again. It was obvious to him that this one would only get worse as the event got closer, if his reaction to seeing nearly nothing was any indication – which it usually was. 

He sat in his chair, the tea he had prepared himself was slowly becoming cold, almost forgotten. He was hoping to do as little as possible, relax so he would be able to function on even less sleep than usual. It was kind of ridiculous that everyone thought Sherlock to be the one with the insane sleep pattern. John however knew, that although the detective used not to sleep for a couple of days, he still slept more than John, who, while going to bed at sensible times and getting up every morning after at least eight hours. It was merely pretend, something he had started at a young age to ease his mother's mind. The thing was, even if he did sleep for some hours, any time spend with visions could not be counted as his inner self was bright awake. 

Rubbing his tired eyes, he wondered what he would do all day to keep his mind from wandering to hurtful thoughts. He was still ignoring his sister after she had sent Jake and he really didn't want to see anyone else, either. However, he knew his wish for peace was once more not granted when he recognized the unmistakable tap of an umbrella on the stairs leading up to the flat.

“Tea, Mycroft?” he asked as soon as the tapping stopped and he knew the older Holmes stood in the doorway.

“At least you returned to some civil behavior.” Mycroft's voice was snide as usual, but John thought he could hear some tension in it as well. “No, thank you.” The answer to his question came with some delay and a moment later, Mycroft sat in Sherlock's chair, which John noted with obvious disdain. Nobody had sat in there since - 

“I have been approached about a delicate matter that usually wouldn't be any of my concern but seeing that it revolves around you, I made an exception.” Mycroft explained, obviously not in the mood to beat around the bush. 

“Who approached you?” John asked frowning.

“Your sister, in fact.” Mycroft replied, which only increased John's confusion.

“My sister? Why would my sister...”

“She had been told that I might be able to help...” Mycroft said ominously. “To be quite blunt, I have been a little annoyed to find out that your gift has been withheld from me all this time.”

John swallowed. He had suspected that Mycroft was not completely ignorant about the issue, but also always assumed Mycroft didn't know about him. Suspicions confirmed, John shifted slightly in his chair, sitting up a little.

“It's top secret and anonymity is what protects us.” John replied. “No one outside the circle is supposed to know, how come my sister was sent to you?”

“You could say that I'm sort of an liaison for the circle. They need the government and I am one of their contact people. I will admit that my knowledge on the matter is entirely second-handed, however, I do have extensive knowledge on the subject and what Harriet told me this morning is more than unsettling.” Mycroft explained.

“Harry has a way of making small things into huge issues. It's alright, Mycroft. I can assure you.” John answered, trying to sound convincing. Probably he should be happy that they sent Mycroft instead of some gifted one – the worst would have been a reader. 

“John, I do understand that sights are always true, and if you did see something that hasn't fulfilled...”

“I figured it out, Mycroft. There's an explanation to everything. I just needed to some time to find the explanation.” John cut him off.

Mycroft nodded slowly, “Well, what is the explanation then?”

John exhaled quickly, he didn't want to share with anyone and he cursed himself for confiding in Harry at all. “I think Moriarty was a seer. He must have seen us die instead of Sherlock and that's why he killed himself. He changed the sight, and therefore mine was changed as well. It's the only thing that makes sense.”

“Moriarty was not listed.” Mycroft objected.

“Of course he wasn't listed. Do you really think it was his real identity? It must have been fake and you don't create a fake identity and get listed with a gift.” John argued and there was no way Mycroft had anything to stand against that. 

“Harriet told me you didn't see Sherlock die...” Mycroft's voice took on a soft tone that was completely unfamiliar to John and sounded just wrong.

“No...the last vision I had was of Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and me dying. However, Moriarty changed the sight just minutes before so there was no time for me to see it.” John said. 

“She said your gift is exceptional...stronger than most.” Mycroft pushed a little and John thought about shutting down completely, but he thought he could see some pain in Mycroft's eyes so he decided against it.

“I've never met anyone with as much foresight as myself. It's horrible, Mycroft. To see people die every night, often enough people that you care about, that you love even...” John took a deep breath. “However, nothing had ever hurt so much as to not see Sherlock's death.”

“Maybe there was another reason why you didn't see it, though.” Mycroft's tone was so soft that John wasn't even sure what he had heard, and before he could ask, Mycroft continued. “I trust you listened to the recording I gave you?”

“Yes, I did, and I hope you didn't listen to the one meant for me.” John smirked, seeing something cross Mycroft's eyes for just a split second, he knew that he had. 

“Of course not.” Mycroft matched John's smirk as he rose to his feet. “I will let the circle know that the issue has subsided.” He moved to the door. “Do give your sister a call. She was trying to help you, and I don't need her pestering me anymore about it.”

Without more of a good bye Mycroft left John alone to his thought. Was there a another reason why he hadn't seen Sherlock die? John shook his head. His explanation to everything that had gone down was perfectly sound and he wouldn't let himself go down that road again. Not now that he was on his way to get his life back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes, Mycroft is a little bitch for putting that thought in John's mind, I know, but in my headcanon, Mycroft has actually come to care about John


	6. New Information

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Same Day as the previous chapter:
> 
> What happened at Mycroft's house before and after he visits John

Mycroft was sitting over some urgent files, drinking the first cup of tea for the day, when he was surprised by his assistant. 

“Sir, you have a visitor.” Anthea said, her phone in her hand but for once she was looking at him.

“Well, who is it?” he asked, slightly annoyed.

“She says her name is Harriet Watson, sister of John Watson, sir.” 

Mycroft looked up from his file, the tea cup in his hand forgotten. “Send her in.” he said, worried that something might have happened to John, too worried to even wonder how Harriet had found him.

“Mr. Holmes.” The small blond said as she entered the office, looking tired and Mycroft only needed one look to know that she's been drinking all night. 

“Harriet, I told you to call me Mycroft.” he said with a put upon nice smile. He tried to put her at ease, obviously something was distressing her. “How did you find me?” 

She followed his silent invitation to a chair and ran a nervous hand through her hair. “Well, I've been talking to the circle and they said that you might be able to help...see, John...he's not well but he won't listen, so maybe he'll listen to someone who's not from the circle but still an official. And someone he knows and trusts.” Harriet explained in a rush.

Mycroft had trouble to figure out what to address first. “The circle?” he asked, surprised at this revelation. “The circle has told you where to find me?”

“Yes,” Harry said, as if she was annoyed to repeat herself about unimportant details. “The circle of gifted. They told me you're informed.”

“I certainly am informed about the circle, Harriet, but I was not informed about John being a member.” Mycroft pointed out to explain his surprise. “What is his gift?”

“He's a foreseer. We all are, we Watsons, I mean, it runs in the family.”

“Gifts usually do, as I understand it...” Mycroft replied. “What seems to be the problem with John, then?” he was worried. If John was a foreseer and didn't see Sherlock's death, it might jeopardize all their safety.

Harriet shifted a little, feeling uncomfortable. “See, most seers only have a couple of visions a year, if that, but John...he's special...when he was nine he started to see, most people don't before puberty but he did and by the time he was eleven, he saw every night. Most only see people that they care about, but John sees so many, most of them he doesn't even know until he sees them die...but he didn't see Sherlock die and I know that it hurts him more than anything.”

Mycroft tried to keep a straight face as his fears were confirmed. “So, what exactly is it you want me to do about that?” 

“Well, the problem is not just that he didn't see it. He saw something else...” she continued.

Mycroft's heart felt a little lighter. “He saw someone else die? Well, I guess many people died that day...”

“He saw himself and two other people die, I've forgotten their names...but they didn't. Instead Sherlock died. That just doesn't happen, Mycroft. He didn't do anything to change fate so it shouldn't happen.” Harriet explained heatedly, trying to get her point across. “John should go see the circle, let himself be checked by the healers, but he won't...”

Mycroft nodded slowly. “It appears that something is seriously off, however, why would John refuse to get help?”

Harriet sighed. “When he was a kid and it became apparent that he was special, mum and dad were out of their depth so they asked for help at the circle. They kept John locked away for more than six months. I don't know what exactly they did with him, he never spoke of it.”

“It certainly explains things...” Mycroft agreed. “Why do you think I could be of help?”

“He trusts you. If someone from outside the circle tells him to get help, if Sherlock's brother tells him to get help...” 

“Are you saying I should use his feelings to my deceased brother to force him into something he doesn't want?” Mycroft asked, slightly apalled. “You do realize that's emotional blackmail. Besides, John does not trust me.” 

Harriet looked taken aback, as if she hadn't thought of it like this before. “He needs help, Mycroft. He ignores me and he doesn't take advise from members, so... if there really is something wrong with his foresight, it might get really bad for him.”

“I do agree, Harriet...I will see what I can do.” Mycroft promised.

Harriet stood from her chair, “Thank you, Mycroft. And please tell him to call me...I only try to help.” With that she nodded shortly and showed herself out.

Mycroft let out a breath. This could get very messy and John certainly should seek help. He decided that the files could wait another few hours and told his assistant to get the car.

 

~°~

 

When Mycroft returned home, he found his chair in his office occupied by his little brother, reading something on his computer.

“How the hell do you get in there all the time?” he asked as he took off his coat.

“It's not exactly Fort Knox.” Sherlock replied. He had stayed with Mycroft ever since his supposed death, sneaking in and out the back door, and it wasn't a rare picture to find him on Mycroft's computer – usually when the older refused to give him certain information. “Must be top secret, what Harry talked about... Can't find a thing about the circle on your computer.” 

Mycroft stopped in the middle of his movement as he was just putting away his briefcase. “You heard me and Harriet talking?”

Sherlock gave Mycroft a calculating look. “Of course. I was just getting back. I meant to tell you about the great success of my night out, when I heard John's sister distressed voice asking you for help. So, tell me, what is this circle and why have I never heard of it?”

Mycroft went around the desk and ushered Sherlock out of his chair before he sat down himself and waited for his brother to take the one in front of the desk. “It's none of your business.” 

“Really, because it sounded like they have business with John and therefore I do think it is my business.” Sherlock replied but Mycroft laughed.

“Not everything your good doctor has ever been involved with automatically becomes your business.” He said still laughing. 

Sherlock nodded, apparently in agreement. “That might be true, but it does sound like my business if Harry thinks John needs to see some _healers_ because he didn't see me die...which he did. He did see me die. Mycroft, I want to understand what the hell is going on! I need to know if there's something wrong with John.” Sherlock insisted.

Mycroft took a long look at his brother. He had never seen him like this. It had only been two weeks since his fall and yet he looked even more drawn and thiner than he used to. His eyes seemed always shaded with a pain Mycroft could not quite understand but because he had secretly listened to the recording meant for John, he did know what it was. 

“I don't think John would appreciate me telling you this.” Mycroft argued and was aware that he was using as much emotional blackmail on Sherlock as he did on John. 

“John thinks I'm dead. No harm in telling anything to a dead man.” Sherlock said, in that particular voice that Mycroft knew that Sherlock would not give up until he had all the answers he wanted – even if it meant doing something stupid.

Taking a deep breath, Mycroft tried to figure out where to start. He knew Sherlock could be trusted with sensible information. 

“There are people that have abilities that are beyond what most would call human. Some might call them supernatural, they call themselves gifted. There are different kinds of gifts and you certainly don't need to know about all of them. What's important is that there's a society, the circle of gifted. As you might have heard, gifts are genetic, so every child of a gifted person is being tested and if they are gifted they get listed. It's a form of control but also protection for them. They are taught to deal with their gifts and they can get into contact with other gifted. It's an important part of their lives, well for most of them anyway. John is one of the few that don't see the benefits of the circle.”

Sherlock let the information sink in for a second. From anyone else, he would have laughed it off but his brother was not easily fooled. “So, what's John's gift then?”

“John is a foreseer. He sees the death of people in his dreams before they happen.” Mycroft explained.

“And he's stronger than most, Harry said...?”

“Apparently. I haven't heard of such a strong seer. As Harriet said, most only see a few deaths a year. I haven't heard of someone who sees every night.” 

Sherlock took a deep breath, “And he didn't see me die, obviously, because I didn't die. But he saw himself die...Do you think it could still happen? Maybe his dream was not about the day I jumped?!”

Mycroft shook his head. “John has been living with his gift for a long time, Sherlock. He can tell you quite precisely how much time will pass before the vision will be fulfilled. No, and it's not like Harriet suggested, that the vision changed without reason. I talked to John and the explanation he provided was sound.”

“What explanation?”

“He thinks that Moriarty was a seer. Apparently Moriarty knew that his plan was not flawless and killing himself was the thing he needed to change to change the vision. As it only happened just before you jumped, neither of them had the chance to see what was really going to happen. I mean, John still would not have seen you die, because you didn't, but he would have seen Moriarty die. In my opinion, that was quite lucky. Moriarty would have known that you would not die.” Mycroft leaned back in his chair as he studied his younger brother. Sherlock's face showed deep concentration, the look he always had when he was filing away new information.

“I need to think.” The young detective said and pushed himself out of his chair. He left the office without another word and Mycroft sighed deeply. Maybe he should push Sherlock to return to his doctor and ask him for his assistant. It would be so much better for the both of them.


	7. From a distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's vision becomes stronger  
> Sherlock tries to deal with new information

_The warehouse was huge but obviously empty for many years. Cold wind came through the broken windows and even three of the five doors John could see were slightly open and evidently broken as well. There was a man that John couldn't quite see. He could make out the form of him, the blond hair but that was it. His face lay in shadows as he turned to another man who was coming towards him slowly, a long dark coat swinging with his steps. John couldn't see that man any clearer and it frustrated him deeply. He became angry - possibly at himself – as he squinted to see more._

_“You – dead.” John had to strain to make out those words from the blond man. And that is all he got from their conversation, the rest was just mumbling as if under water. He could see first the blond and then the one in the long coat draw a gun and more mumbled words, the blond growing agitated and louder with each calmly stated reply from the other._

_John tried to move, he tried to get to the two men, tried to get them to leave before_

_-Baaam-_

 

John tried to regulate his breathing as he sat upright in bed, his chest hurting, whether from the lack of oxygen or if he had cried out something, he wasn't sure. His eyes were filling with tears he couldn't quite explain and his whole body was shaking. This vision really got to him and he had no idea why.

 

~°~

 

Sherlock stood just inside the shadows of the alley right across 221b Baker Street. He had waited for two hours now, two hours of staring at the black front door, waiting for it to open. He just wanted a glimpse. He needed to see his friend, the one he would die for – truly die for if he had to. After what Mycroft had told him about John's gift, he went to his mind palace, rearranging everything under John's name, checking old memories and deductions and completing or correcting them. 

John had never been shy to admit that he was dreaming of death. He knew perfectly well – after only a couple of hours – that lying to Sherlock was useless and therefore he had sticked to the truth as much as possible, as Sherlock now realized. 

_“I have night terrors. You know, I see people die... Flat mates should know the worst about each other, right?”_

John's words were filed in his mind palace, everything he had ever said and those words were there in bold letters, notes attached about what violin piece would apparently calm him down if he woke screaming or what kind of herbal tea John preferred if he couldn't go back to sleep so Sherlock could prepare it before the soldier came down the stairs. Those were small things Sherlock used to do, even if he didn't understand for a long time why he felt the need to ease the doctor's way.

Back then, Sherlock had deduced that they were PTSD induced nightmares. A perfectly sound deduction, hence the psychosomatic limp and intermittent tremor in his left hand. Now, however, now that he had new facts, he had realized that he needed to revisit all those deductions and he had realized that probably not only deductions about John had been wrong and that was simply not acceptable. He needed more information and he knew that just behind that black door was someone who could give him all the information he wanted and not some biased bullshit censored by the circle. 

The circle. Sherlock didn't even know it existed two days ago and he still didn't really know what it was that they did, but he knew that he hated them. He could imagine young John being locked away in some facility that Sherlock imagined to be a lot like a hospital, poked and prodded by doctors – _healers_ – trying to figure out what it was that made him different. He sure knew how that felt. 

He tried to rationalize his behavior. He tried to tell himself that the reason why he was here, why he was risking being discovered and threatening the safety of his mission – and he tried to think that it threatened his mission and not John's life – was that he was curious about this change of events. However, as much as he tried it wasn't easy. Logically there was no way to explain his behavior but simply with the fact the he truly just needed to see John. 

The last time he saw him, the man looked broken. It was seven days after his fall, at the cemetery, where John said his goodbyes to an empty grave. He had heard every word of it, thanks to the bug he had planted just at the foot of the headstone, and he had to use all he had to remain in control of himself. All he did since the roof was remaining in control of himself. He distanced himself, divorced himself from feelings like he used to do before he knew John.

John – who had changed him so much. Who had managed to break through all his walls and get inside his mind, his soul, his heart. He was his heart and seeing – literally seeing your heart break right before your eyes – your mind simply cannot divorce itself anymore.

Sherlock came back to attention when the black door opened and John stepped onto the streets. For a blissful moment, he just stood there, looking up and down the streets and gave Sherlock time to study him. 

The first impression of John was collected. His clothes were recently laundered and pressed, his shoes shiny, his hair cut short in the old military style and his face shaved clean – razor blade, not electric. However, Sherlock was not a man of first impressions. Mycroft had told him about John's new job, back in the OR, full time, that's why he could afford to stay at Baker Street alone, so Sherlock had expected him to keep up pretense. On closer inspection – even from this distance – there were dark rings under his eyes, obviously he's been sleeping even less than before his fall and it made Sherlock wonder if it was depression or visions robbing him of the little sleep he used to get. As oblivious as he pretended to be about it, he had always known that John did not sleep as long as he tried to make him believe. Sherlock had never felt bad about keeping John up until the early hours of morning, or even all night, because he knew the doctor would not sleep much more than two or three hours anyway. Of course, the reason for that evaded him until now.

He also noticed that John had lost weight. This could not be explained by his lack of sleep – sleep encourages burning of fat, not the other way around. It also was at least five, maybe six pounds – hard to tell at that distance – which was a lot to lose in two weeks. It couldn't be explained by the missing routine of eating with Sherlock – because Sherlock didn't have regular meals and therefore he could only come to the conclusion that John didn't eat because he was depressed. Lack of sleep, refusal of food and all the overtime he took at his job – information provided by Mycroft, of course – Sherlock knew that he had to return to John as soon as possible and for once look after the doctor so he wouldn't run himself into the ground. He didn't fake-die so he would allow John to just fade away unnoticed. 

The doctor got into a cap and Sherlock sighed as he was taken the chance to at least look at John from a distance. Mycroft had offered him to use the CCTV, but Sherlock refused. A grainy tv screen was worse than nothing, actually. 

He pulled out his cell phone and went through his messages. Mycroft had not yet provided him with new information concerning the last of the snipers and Sherlock wondered if he could return after that. It wasn't very clear yet if there had been more. Someone must have called off the two he already eliminated and he was quite sure that it was the one aiming at John – the one that could stay clear of him so far. CCTV had shown him who was supposed to kill Mrs. Hudson, and some background checks and _legwork_ – as Mycroft had disdainfully called it - helped him to find the mole inside the Yard, but John's sniper proofed to be much more difficult – and that's not exactly a surprise.

He was quite sure that the man would play a bigger role, the one to take out Sherlock's heart.


	8. And it goes boom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's and John's POV on a certain incident that will change a lot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rather short, but important, and the next one will be rather long. If I could have divided it differently I would have but it only works like this.
> 
> Also there's some jump in time but I figured the time between the last chapter and this one is not that important and anything relevant will be mentioned in conversation.

One week later

_Sherlock's POV_

Sherlock walked inside the abandoned warehouse with the confidence of a man who had nothing to lose. He could already see the man he had been dying to meet for three weeks now and for some reason he felt slightly disappointed. This was just some soldier, a mercenary, someone killing for money and that meant he wasn't the top of Sherlock's list. Just another minion.

The blond man turned to him and his mouth dropped open slightly. “You – you're dead!” 

“Evidently, I am not.” Sherlock replied as he walked closer to the man, now seeming a little skittish. Seeing someone risen from the dead did that to people, as Sherlock now well knew. 

“How-” the man cut off his own question and instead produced a gun. Sherlock thought him to be a good marksman – obviously Moriarty wouldn't trust just anyone to take out John – but now his hand was shaking visibly.

“Not exactly what you were expecting, is it?” Sherlock asked calmly, stopping a few feet away from him and pulling his gun as well, just so the odds were even. 

The blond shook his head almost unnoticeable. “How did you find me?”

Sherlock smirked slightly. “Why would I tell _you_?” 

“HOW did you FIND ME?” The blond yelled, pushed his gun a little forward as if to draw attention to it, but Sherlock didn't falter. 

“Does it really matter? You know what happened to the other gunmen, don't you? Do you really think you could have another fate?” Sherlock kept a steady eye on the man's hand, arm and eyes, trying to estimate how much time he had before he would pull the trigger out of panic. “Who called you off? Who told you not to take the shot?”

The man scoffed, looking at Sherlock as if he had turned mad. “Oh, and you think you'll get any answers? I don't see my disadvantage, mate, I don't need to beg for my life.”

“You should.” Sherlock replied. 

Both men stared into each other's eyes for a long moment – which was broken by a door at the other end of the warehouse being forcefully pushed open. They turned, Sherlock's heart stopping for an awfully long moment as he saw John heading towards them, his pace quick, purposefully. Just as the sniper raised his gun midway towards the doctor, John raised his own, shooting his own sniper straight in the head without even breaking his stride. 

“Get out!” He gritted towards Sherlock, making his way closer to the petrified detective. 

“John-” Sherlock started but was cut off by John grabbing his arm and pulling him towards the closest exit.

“Get the fuck out of here! RUN!” John yelled and broke into a run, pulling Sherlock with him. Just as they were out the door, a blast erupted behind them and everything went black. 

 

~°~

 

John's POV

 

John's heart hadn't stopped raising since he woke from his vision hours earlier. Some part of him wanted to believe that what he saw was wrong. He wanted to believe that his inner self was off, something was wrong with him, that he was going crazy, anything rather than this. 

He half ran through the old industrial area, trying to find the right warehouse. He had been there before, he remembered Sherlock taking him onto a crime scene there and he simply knew that was not a coincident. Also it gave him more reason to believe that it had not been a vision but something his mind had made up.

If it was a vision, and if he wasn't fast enough, it meant that Sherlock was still alive, only to be taken away from him by an explosion and as much as he wanted to believe that Sherlock would not trick him like that, would not voluntarily hurt him like that, the risk was too much to take.

Finally he found the right building and ran towards the closest door. Pulling his gun as he pushed open the door, he had clear sight of the inside and his heart beat became even more erratic. 

There he stood, his long coat, his dark curls, looking just the same as the day he died. John tried to concentrate, pushing his overwhelming feelings to the back of his mind to be dealt with later once they were both safe – or never dealt with if they both happened to die right here. 

He ignored the shocked expression on Sherlock's face as he walked quickly towards the one pointing a gun at the detective. Just as the man changed his aim to John, the ex-soldier raised his arm, aimed quickly and pulled the trigger without second thought or doubt. The blond fell to the floor, dead, and John looked away from him without the slightest feeling of remorse.

“Get out!” He gritted towards a transfixed Sherlock.

“John-” he heard so much in Sherlock's voice just saying his name that he really couldn't deal with right now. He needed to get him out of here. He needed to save him. Grabbing Sherlock's arm he pulled the detective with him.

“Get the fuck out of here! RUN!” 

As they had just left the door and John was about to let out a breath, the blast behind them threw him off his feet and onto the ground. His head spun and he could feel every single muscle in his body as he slowly pushed himself up, trying to clear his vision and ignoring the buzzing of his ears. He turned and saw Sherlock lying lifeless on the floor.

“No...” he breathed and scrambled towards the man he needed to save more than anything else in his life. “No, Sherlock...” He reached the detective, seeing blood pool under his head. He bend down, close to Sherlock's face and feeling relieved at the air that brushed his face. Checking the detective's pulse he found it quite steady.

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket. Even though Sherlock was stable at the moment it didn't mean that he was out of danger yet, so kept his fingers on his carotid artery, feeling the reassuring drumming of his blood rushing though the veins.

“Mycroft!” John said forcefully as the call was answered before the other could utter a single word. “Send help!”


	9. Waking up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After John leaves Sherlock's bedside, the detective has to ask him for the conversation they need to have

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story writes itself...
> 
> Obviously there will be more talking but I figured those two wouldn't have it all in one sitting. Too much for two brits, I think.

John did what he did best. He stood beside the hospital bed, staring intently at the chart in his hand instead of the patient lying in the bed. The CT showed no signs of bleeding and the vitals were stable, yet he hadn't woken up yet. 

Taking a deep breath, John realized he could no longer pretend to just be another doctor treating this man and he put down the chart. Looking at the bed, he tried to keep his breathing at a normal rate and suppress his raging emotions. 

Sherlock's face was peaceful and it was only fuel for John's inner conflict. On the one hand he was relieved, as relieved as he had felt only once before, and at the same time, he felt like he was drowning. He should feel happy, ecstatic, and in a way he did, and yet he felt so hurt by Sherlock's actions. Of course, he still needed to hear the whole story and he knew that Sherlock had done it to save his life – but did he need to stay away? Couldn't he have let him know that he was not truly dead? Couldn't he say so in his bloody message he recorded before the showdown on the roof? 

_Maybe there was another reason why you didn't see it, though._

Mycroft's words returned to John's mind. The fucker knew all along. He knew Sherlock wasn't dead and he just didn't say anything. He saw John break down, becoming a shadow of himself, doubting himself and his gift and yet he let him. 

His hands clenched into fists and he knew he had to leave at this instant or he would do something he might regret later.

 

~°~

 

When Sherlock's mind returned, it first was into semi-consciousness. He was aware that he was lying on a bed that was neither his bed nor the bed he had occupied for the last weeks. He could tell, even with his eyes closed, that there was a window to the left, no, a row of windows and artificial light right above him. He heard the light beeping of something in the rhythm of a heartbeat – his heartbeat, he realized a moment later and concluded that he was hocked up to a monitor and by the feeling in his hand, also an IV line. He was at a hospital.

And that's as far as his deductions brought him. He remembered the final act of his game with Moriarty, he remembered faking his suicide, saying goodbye to John. He remembered John at his grave, saying his own goodbyes. He remembered killing two of the shooters that were aiming at his friends – Mrs. Hudson's and Lestrade's. He remembered Harry telling Mycroft about John's problems, his own inquisition and resulting confusion about those and he remembered watching John from afar. 

He remembered receiving a tip from Mycroft to the whereabouts of the third shooter and heading there right away without stopping to coordinate with his older brother. And then he draw a blank. What happened after he had reached the warehouse? Did he get him? Did he kill him? Did the man hurt him and then got away, maybe off to finish his job now that he knew Sherlock was alive?

The detective opened his eyes, slowly, letting them adjust to the light above him and then looked around. Apart from the IV and the monitor he couldn't see much to distress him. He couldn't tell which hospital he had been brought to, which meant it wasn't Bart's because he knew that one inside out. Turning his head to the other side, he found Mycroft sitting in a chair, giving him a look as if he had truly fucked up. Sherlock swallowed around a dry throat.

“Water?” he asked, his voice broken. Mycroft simply reached for the nightstand, holding out a cup to Sherlock, who drank huge gulps.

“Glad to see you made it back to the living after running off like that. Sure scared the living hell out of John.” Mycroft said and Sherlock almost dropped the cup of water.

“John?” he asked, his voice still not there but for different reasons. 

Mycroft frowned slightly. “You do remember what happened, don't you?”

Sherlock tried to sit up a little and only now realized that his head spun and a sharp pain was spreading from his forehead. So he had hit his head, well, that explained the gap in memory.

“No, I...I remember receiving your tip and going to the warehouse but after that -” he broke off when he saw Mycroft's confused gaze. “What?”

“I didn't send you a tip, Sherlock.”

“Of course you did. Where's my phone, I'll show you...” Sherlock said, looking around for his stuff.

“Sherlock, I did not send you a tip. You really think I would do that again after the Vauxhall incident?” Mycroft insisted.

“Then...” Something came to Sherlock's mind, an explosion. There was an explosion at the warehouse. “It was a trap...someone put the sniper there as bait to get me to come...” a moment later he turned back to Mycroft. “You said I scared John? How did I scare John?”

Mycroft sighed deeply, “Remember what I told you about John's gift?”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “He saw me die, right? He saw me die although he thought I was already dead...” He could punch himself for all he put John through. How were you to react to have a vision of someone dying that you thought were already dead. 

“Precisely. He called me after he had rescued you from the building, but the blast knocked you off your feet.” Mycroft replied.

“Where is he now?” Sherlock asked worried that John might be injured as well. 

“I don't know. I had to attend some formalities as you are currently not alive and therefore should not turn up at a hospital, and when I came back, he was gone.” Mycroft's tone changed slightly and if Sherlock didn't know better, he'd say his brother was worried. “Your phone.” he said, putting it in Sherlock's hand and then stood to leave. “I'll send a car to pick you up tomorrow. I'm sure you don't want to stay any longer than absolutely necessary.”

Sherlock merely nodded to this, as he was already busy writing a text.

_Why did you leave? SH_

Sherlock took a deep breath as he tried to calm his nerves, waiting for John's reply.

_Needed space so I don't knock you unconscious again as soon as you wake up. JW_

Honesty, Sherlock had to smile at that. John had never been one to hide what he's thinking, at least not towards Sherlock.

_Can we talk? SH_

_I'm not sure, Sherlock. It's all been too much, for lack of a better word. JW_

_Please. SH_

_John? SH_

_You did listen to my recordings, didn't you? SH_

_It hurt. JW_

_Seeing you jump off that building. JW_

_Hearing what you said. On the roof and before. JW_

_Knowing that you were gone before you ever said those words to me in person. JW_

_Do you want me to say them to you in person? SH_

_You're the detective. Couldn't you make that deduction? JW_

_Come back so I can say them. SH_

_There's more, Sherlock. More things that I cannot explain to you. Things that make this so much harder than you could ever imagine. JW_

_I know. I know about your gift, John. I know you didn't see me fall before I did and I know that you saw me die in that explosion. And I know that both hurt. Please, come back so I can say all those things that I need to say, even if I don't know how. SH ___

__That was it. For thirty minutes Sherlock sat on his bed, waiting for John to reply to his last text but nothing came. Did he ruin it? Did he send John running because he told him that he knew about the visions?_ _

__He stood, starting to pace as far as the IV line would allow him to. His first instinct on Mycroft's expression when he woke up was correct. He had truly fucked up. He had been blind in his search to exterminate every danger so he could return to John, never stopping to think that he put himself in danger. No, he knew he put himself in danger, he just didn't care. However, when he learned about John's gift he should have considered that if he was to die, the other man would see it. He would see it and know that Sherlock was not dead, but soon would be. He couldn't even begin to understand what it was like to know that someone was dying, let alone someone you already mourned._ _

__“You should be in bed.”_ _

__The voice startled him out of his thoughts and he turned too quickly, loosing his balance as his head swam. He felt hands around his upper arms and himself being lead back to the bed._ _

__“John...” he almost whispered, overwhelmed by a rush of feelings along with vertigo._ _

__“I'm back, now get your head in order and then we can talk.” The doctor sounded so calm, nothing what Sherlock would have expected after him vanishing from his bedside and all the texts._ _

__“I'm sorry, John...” Sherlock started but John put a hand on top of his, silencing him effectively._ _

__“I know, Sherlock...I know you did what you had to do. And I realize that you thought keeping me out of it was the only way to keep me safe. I know, and I would have done the same thing, but you have to understand that it still hurts... now, before we go any further, I need to know what you know about my gift and since when. I imagine you know from Mycroft.” John said as he took the chair next to the bed – too far away for Sherlock's liking._ _

__“I've overheard him and Harry talking when she came to his house. I questioned him after he came back from his conversation with you but I don't know very much. I know that you see people die in your dreams before it happens, and apparently your gift is strong, however I don't have any point of comparison. It's not exactly a matter that you can google, apparently.” Sherlock quickly listed._ _

__John chuckled a little. “No, it definitely isn't. Well, sounds like you know most about me...and yes, my gift is very strong. I barely get the luxury of having a vision-less night. And that's why it hurt so much that I hadn't seen you die. You see, after many years, I've grown used to seeing people die, even people that I care about and while it still hurts, and your death hurt like hell, it does prepare me for it.” He took a deep breath, “I had the vision of the warehouse for a while now, but I could never make out just who it was. Until last night. I woke up at three in the morning and I knew that you were alive, but about to die. It broke my heart on a level I had never experienced before and I thought that after seeing you jump, I had experienced it all.”_ _

__Sherlock tried to look into John's eyes, but the doctor was avoiding his gaze. “How did you find me?”_ _

__“I recognized the warehouse. We were there, on the Trademark Infringement Case, remember?” John asked, using his blog title of the case as they used to do._ _

__Sherlock nodded. “Yes, I do...” he smiled a little as he realized that maybe before they had met, John wouldn't have spent enough attention on the warehouse to remember it two years later._ _

__“It wasn't the first time, you know.” John said, drawing Sherlock's attention back to him and when the detective looked up, he gaze right into John's blue eyes, full of emotions._ _

__“The first time of what?” Sherlock asked._ _

__“The first time I saw you die. Right after we met, I saw you die by taking that damn pill. That's why I shot that cabbie. I knew you'd be an idiot and take that fucking pill.” John said, his voice dropping a little._ _

__“So, it was the wrong pill?” It was the first thing that came to Sherlock's mind._ _

__John laughed. “Of course, you kept wondering about that, didn't you? Yes, Sherlock, it was the wrong pill.”_ _

__“You could have just told me. You wouldn't have had to shoot him if you told me that I'd choose the wrong pill.” Sherlock pointed out._ _

__“And the great Sherlock Holmes would have believed me if I told him that I dreamed that he'd die because he'd take the wrong pill? Really, Sherlock? Do you honestly think there is anyway I could have told you about this that would have prevented you from taking that pill?” John questioned and after a while Sherlock shook his head. “Didn't think so. We don't go around telling people about our gifts. Most only ever tell their loved ones, and some not even them. I couldn't possibly think of a way to tell anyone so they'd believe me. Even among my own I was always looked at as a freak, how would _normal_ people react...”_ _

__“I don't think you're a freak.” Sherlock said quickly. “I always knew there was something about you, something that made you special, different, extraordinary, call it what you want. There was something that made you interesting. I just never figured out what it was...”_ _

__John smiled but Sherlock could tell that he didn't really believe him yet._ _

__“John...there's much I want to say and you know me better than anyone, so you know that feelings are not my strong point. However, I truly think that there is no way we can go on pretending that there is nothing...” Sherlock tried to steer the conversation into the direction he needed to go but dreaded._ _

__“Well, you ruled that out with your recording.” John grinned slightly._ _

__Sherlock returned it with a small smirk. “True, and I think that was rather the point, actually. Subconsciously I never wanted to come back to the way things were, although I always planned on coming back. I guess, I thought that it was a risk I was willing to take, as I was risking everything I had anyway.” He shifted a little on the bed, subconsciously trying to be closer to John. “I've never had feelings like these before. I never looked at someone and saw more than just what I could use them for. I never felt the need to please someone, to make them smile, to ease their pain. I never felt this irresistible urge to touch someone, to kiss them...” Sherlock trailed off as he looked up at John._ _

__There were so many emotions in John's eyes that Sherlock couldn't even begin to decipher them. He waited, observing John's every move as his blogger stood and slowly approached the bed, stopping shortly before sitting on the edge of it, close enough to Sherlock that the detective's leg brushed John's back._ _

__“Sherlock -” He started but didn't know how to continue. This shouldn't be that hard as he had already heard those three most important words from him. “When I met you, I was instantly drawn to you, you know that. Why else would I have turned up after our first meeting. It was a time for me when I actually wanted to be alone, when I pushed everyone away. I even subconsciously tried to sabotage our first meeting...”_ _

__Sherlock grinned slightly. “I know. You think I didn't notice your rough tone and snappy answers, especially in hindsight when I saw the real you? All polite and nice and a lot of smiles...I really like those smiles.” His voice got very low at the end and he moved his hand closer to where John had put his on the bed, their fingers nearly touching._ _

__John smiled a bit, only the corner of his mouth turning upwards, but it was honest and truly beautiful to Sherlock. “I didn't think I'd fit in anywhere and still I tried – as always in my life – to blend in. I tried to be normal and then you appeared and turned my life upside down in a matter of days. I like to pretend that I stayed for the thrill that I was missing after the war, but in fact, after I saw you die, after I woke up from that vision, I simply knew that I loved you. It wasn't an easy revelation to have, and I never lied when I said that I'm not gay because I truly never had feelings like this for a man before...but I thought of something that Harry said when she first came out. When you're in love, you're in love with the person and not the gender. That's quite true, I guess.”_ _

__Sherlock frowned at this. “So, you're in love with me, but not with my gender? You love me, but you're not attracted to me?” He had never felt physical attraction before but he knew he felt it for John._ _

__“That's not what I've been trying to say, Sherlock. I'm saying that if you love someone, they are attractive to you, no matter what gender.” John hesitantly moved his hand to brush his fingers against Sherlock's and the detective sucked in a breath. “You said you never felt attracted to anyone before. Is it really that much different, then?”_ _

__“I guess it isn't...” Sherlock muttered, moving his fingers as well now, entwining them with John. “Where does that put us?”_ _

__“At the beginning of something...with lots of experiments.” John grinned wickedly and leaned forward, pressing his lips softly onto Sherlock's, who sighed against his mouth. John pulled back only slightly, their faces still close to each other. “Say those words...” he ordered quietly._ _

__Sherlock didn't need to ask what words, but he found them a little hard to say. “I – I love you.”_ _

__“Good”, John smiled against Sherlock's lips, brushing them together gently, “I love you, too...now get your stuff. We're going home.”_ _

__Sherlock opened his eyes, that he hadn't noticed he had closed. “They want to keep me for observation for 24 hours.”_ _

__“Oh, trust me, Sherlock, I'm not going to let you out of my sight for at least the next 24 hours and I'm a doctor.” John's grin grew even more mischievously._ _


	10. Getting comfortable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock returns to 221b.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something quick before I'm off to work. Enjoy - no smut right now but in the very near future ;-)

Ever since they left the hospital room, Sherlock had felt nervous, which was a completely unknown feeling for him. He had stayed silent while John took over the formalities to get him released, against medical advice, of course, and also during the cab ride home. 

He didn't know what would happen once they were inside their own home and the door was closed, the outside world locked out. If John's expression just before and after their first chaste kiss was anything to go by, Sherlock was in for a lot of new experiences and as much as he thought he wanted all of it, as much as he had imagined all those things – and he had done his research once he noticed certain feelings – he hated to admit that Mycroft hadn't been completely wrong. Sex did alarm him a bit. 

“You can't turn off your mind, can you?” John asked, giving him a sideway look, shortly before they arrived at the flat. “I can hear you thinking. Stop, once we're home, we'll talk. No need to rush anything, we've got time.” John reassured and Sherlock thought he saw John's hand twitch towards his but apparently the doctor restrained himself. 

He didn't reply and didn't really feel more at ease. He didn't dare to look over at his – well, he wasn't even sure what to call John anymore. Friend? That hardly seemed sufficient. Best friend? Even that went out of the window some time ago. Lover? Not there yet. Flat mate, well, at least that term hadn't changed yet, at least Sherlock hoped it hadn't. 

They arrived and with every step Sherlock took, his heart seemed to speed up. His mind was playing him pictures of the videos he had looked up online and – if that wasn't his biggest mistake – all the kinks and fetishes he had looked up just to be prepared for anything – not that he truly thought he'd ever get into this situation. Interesting that they had Moriarty of all people to thank for that. 

_Stop thinking about disturbing sex!_ Sherlock thought to himself – or yelled at himself in his head. John had promised him they wouldn't rush anything so he would have to follow John's advice and stop thinking about it. 

Instead he began to really look at John as his flat mate moved around the flat. One would think Sherlock would check what had changed around his home but instead he was completely focused on the other man. The rings under his eyes were very prominent and his skin looked pale and wan, the frown lines around his eyes much more pronounced and from this close, Sherlock could tell that he had lost 8 pounds and he looked more drawn and tired than Sherlock had ever seen him. When John turned to him, a smile appeared on the blogger's face but it didn't reach his eyes, which showed a pain Sherlock couldn't begin to understand.

“How much did I hurt you?” he asked.

John's smile grew a little sadder even. “It doesn't matter, Sherlock. You're back now.”

“But you still hurt.” Sherlock insisted. “It does matter.”

John ran a hand through his short hair, too short. Sherlock remembered when he had it a bit longer, a bit shaggier and it made him look younger, more at ease. This was business, hard ass, soldier John and while Sherlock loved that part of him, he preferred the heart over bravery.

“It's not just you, Sherlock. Don't get me wrong, your death, it really did bring me to the brink of something, but those last weeks had been getting worse and worse.” John tried to explain but didn't know how to verbalize that while his pain did come from Sherlock, he didn't blame him – or tried not to. 

Sherlock tried to read John but he couldn't get to the bottom of this. “The circle?” he tried. He didn't know much about that topic so it was most logical to be the reason why he couldn't figure it out.

“Among other things, yes. I made the mistake of telling Harry that I didn't see you die. And that I saw Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and myself. Of course, she couldn't leave me alone to figure it out on my own and I really don't appreciate being bullied by officials.” John replied, busying himself with making tea. 

He could feel Sherlock's gaze on his back and realized that he would have to have this conversation with him sooner or later, so might as well get it over with. “Ask your questions, Sherlock. I know you have many.”

“What's the circle of gifted?” Sherlock's first question was a formal one, deliberately impersonal.

“Basically, they are the ministry responsible for us. Regulation, control, training. Gifts are genetic, so if your parents are gifted, you get tested as a kid. Don't ask me how they do it, it's something the readers do. It doesn't hurt, actually they just look at you intendly, but it scared the shit out of me when I was five.” John grinned at Sherlock humorlessly. “Obviously, I had no idea what they had in store for me years after that.” 

He put two cups onto the kitchen table – free of experiments for once – and sat down, waiting for Sherlock to follow. “Anyway, they keep us in check as some gifts are a little more problematic than mine. They also teach us how to deal with the gifts we have. For me, it was mostly grief counseling and shit like that. Breathing techniques and all that stuff to calm you down after a vision. Seers are the ones that have the most problems dealing with their gift as it can't be controlled. Many never really find a healthy way.”

“Is that way your sister took up drinking?” Sherlock asked carefully and John nodded.

“She's like my dad. They never learned to deal with it. It's quite unfortunate that not only gifts but also tendency for addiction is genetic, don't you think?”

Sherlock took a sip of his tea, just the way he liked it, and used that moment to think of his next question. 

“Harry said they locked you up for six months...what did they do?” 

John swallowed visibly, the memory obviously painful. “It's unusual for gifts to present themselves before puberty, especially foresight. I started seeing when I was nine and by the time I was eleven I saw every night. Mom and Dad were worried, they didn't know what to do, so they turned me over to the circle. The elders – the highest of the circle – they put me away, to be examined by the healers. Months on end, I was kept in a room, no contact to my family or my friends, and every day they'd do tests on me. Now, it's different from tests they do at the hospital. They didn't take blood or do CT or MRT scans. They used to sit me down, read my mind, try to put thoughts into my head. I think they tried to – I don't think they were really trying to help me. I think they were using me as a guinea pig. Running tests on foreseers is hard because you never know when they'll have a vision, but I had them every night so I was the perfect test subject.”

“What were they trying to do?” Sherlock asked shocked. How much John had to endure even as a kid. As if seeing people die wasn't horrible enough...

John shrugged. “I don't know. They send me home after about seven months, and nothing had changed. I still had visions every night and I don't think that any of the stuff they tried to achieve worked. The only reason they send me home was because I became resistant. I tried to block out the readers and after a while, they didn't get into my head anymore.” He took a deep, slightly shaky breath, “So you get why I'm not exactly fond of the circle. And that my sister, my own sister, goes to them, even to help me, that's betrayal to me. She might not know what exactly they did to me, but she knows that I don't like them and only ever went there because of Mom.” 

Sherlock nodded. He could see that this was a sensitive subject for John but he knew that he needed to really understand all of this. “So, what you see...it can change?”

“I can change it, sometimes.” John answered, staring at his cup. “Most of the time, I can't, though. There's not really much change with natural causes, and most accidents are bound to happen because you can't stop someone from ever using a car or something like that, and to tell when exactly it's going to happen is hard.”

“Mycroft said you can tell when it'll happen. I was worried that your vision about you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would still come true.” Sherlock intervened.

“I can tell how far away it is, in a matter of days. I knew that it would happen, maybe that day or the day after that, no longer than three days after my last vision. Sometimes it's quite clear, sometimes it's not. There's no precise way of telling, especially because no one else I've ever met could tell it as closely as I can, because they have less experience with it. The visions of you, those were two I knew exactly what day there were going to happen. And as you can tell by being still alive, I could change those.” John looked up at Sherlock, his eyes conveying all those feelings that he didn't mention – fear, almost panic, pain but also love and relief.

Sherlock felt the sudden need to comfort John, to show him that he was really there, so he put his hand on top of the doctor's , who turned his palm upside so he could hold Sherlock's hand, his thumb stroking over the back. 

“It nearly killed me to see you die...I don't ever want to see that again.” John whispered.

“And I hope you won't have to.” Sherlock answered, squeezing the hand holding is. 

John smiled, honest and warm this time. “Can we postpone further gift talk?” he asked, putting his other hand onto Sherlock's. 

“Yes.” Sherlock breathed before he thought about it. Talking about gifts gave him time, time to figure out just what he wanted to say. 

“Sherlock, you've never been with anyone before, right?” John's gaze became intend.

“No. I never had any wish for intimacy in any way before...John, I do have feelings...I mean...for god's sake, this shouldn't be this hard, should it?” Sherlock pulled his hand back to bury his face in them.

“It's ok, Sherlock. I get it that this is all new to you. We'll take it slow.” John said softly.

Sherlock raised his gaze sharply, feeling annoyed all of a sudden. “I don't want you to treat me like I'll break.”

That mischievous grin reappeared on John's face, and for some reason Sherlock felt a tension in his lower abdomen, pooling towards his groin. That grin was damn sexy.

“Trust me, Sherlock, once you've gotten comfortable, I won't be treating you like you'll break. Far from it. I did have some time to fantasize about just what I would like to do with you and for someone who's not gay, I've had a good time imagining things with you.” The grin softened into that warm smile that made Sherlock feel home. “However, you're in no condition for any of that anyway for at least three more days, so...we'll have time to just get comfortable with each other first.”

Despite feeling a little worried about what exactly would happen as soon as he was in condition, Sherlock felt a little disappointed that he would have to wait. And he knew that John was a too good doctor to be convinced otherwise. 

“So, how will we get comfortable with each other?” Sherlock asked instead of pushing the issue. “I don't think that after living with each other for so long there's much left to learn.”

John chuckled and got up from his chair. “Oh, Sherlock, you'd be surprised.” He held out his hand and after a moment of hesitation Sherlock took it, only to be pulled onto his feet and close to John, so their chests were touching. John put a hand onto the small of Sherlock's back and the other on the side of his neck. “Ok?” he asked carefully.

“More than ok...this feels very nice.” Sherlock replied, putting his own arms around John to pull him closer into the embrace.

“Well, tell me as soon something not ok.” John said and then pulled Sherlock's head down to meet his lips in a soft kiss.

Sherlock did what he always does. He started saving all memories of John inside his mind palace, opening up a whole new corridor for just how John's lips felt as they softly moved against his, the mild pressure, the slight moisture – not too dry, not too wet, just perfect – how John smelled from this close, his after shave – a new one, probably more expensive with his new job and all that – John's body pressed up against his own, the heat radiating off him and seeping into Sherlock's skin making him feel as if he'd never been warm before, John's hands tugging softly at the curls at the back of his head as the kiss deepened. 

A little surprised, Sherlock noticed John's tongue running over his lips, just the tip of it, teasing, asking, begging for him to open and there was no way he could deny. As John's tongue invaded his mouth, devouring him, Sherlock was overwhelmed. His knees went weak as his mind was flooded with information of sounds, feelings, scents and oh my god that taste! Sherlock could not tell if he'd ever tasted anything as delicious as John before. 

Bereft of breath they pulled apart much too soon and yet, panting, Sherlock wasn't sure he could take much more of it right now. Even without any ground for comparison, Sherlock would dare to say that John was one hell of a kisser.

John put a little distance between them, at which Sherlock let out a disappointed grunt. Chuckling John placed a soft, almost not there kiss on Sherlock's lips. “You should sleep a while. Get yourself back in shape, so we can continue with this new stuff.”

“I'm in shape.” Sherlock started to argue but John completely moved out of the embrace. 

“No, Sherlock, you've got a concussion. You need to rest. You wouldn't want me to start anything and then have to stop in the middle of things because you're getting dizzy.” John said. “Trust me, once you've started, you don't want to stop in the middle of things.” 

“I think you've started something already.” Sherlock provided, hoping to get one over John by using simple logic, however, he had to admit he wasn't on top of his game right now.

John grinned. “Nice try, Sherlock. Go to bed, we'll talk more in the morning.”

Sherlock sulked but started to move towards his bedroom. Stopping in the doorway he turned back, “John...”

The doctor turned to look at him questioningly. “Yes?”

“Would you...join me?” Sherlock asked tentatively. He's never wanted to share his bed with someone before, but the thought of having John next to him, to feel that warmth he had felt during their kiss from his body, was very comforting.

John looked like a deer caught in the headlights. He had been rather brave up until now, going with the flow, shutting off his brain and surprising himself with every confident move he had taken so far. “Um...yeah, sure...” he muttered, feeling self conscious all of a sudden. 

They moved to the bedroom and then they stood there, unsure of what to do. Sherlock removed his jacked, glancing around nervously. Was he supposed to change into his pyjamas? Should he just lay down in his clothes? Or his underwear? Or naked? He looked up at John, who looked just as dumbstruck. 

“Um...I don't have anything down here, but naked doesn't seem to be a good idea because I'm not sure what will happen then...so...pants?” The blogger asked, a blush creeping onto his face as he said the last word.

Sherlock simply nodded and then proceeded to undress quickly and sliding in under the covers. John followed him a moment later and for some reason, after that it was easy. John lay on his back and Sherlock fitted nicely to his side, his head resting on his shoulder. John buried his nose in those unruly curls for a moment and sighed. This was simply perfect. This was how it was supposed to be. 

“Good night, Sherlock.” he whispered as he placed a gentle kiss on top of that brilliant head.

“Good night, John.” Sherlock replied, cuddling a little closer to John's side, his eyes closed, with an expression of pure innocence and feeling as comfortable as never before he fell fast asleep.


	11. Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock learns something new about gifted, and John has to set the record straight

It was in the early hours of the morning when Sherlock woke up alone in his own bed. The sun hadn't completely come up yet, but Sherlock could feel that the side of the bed, where John had been, was cold. He wondered for a moment if the doctor had left because he'd had a vision and didn't want to disturb Sherlock's much needed sleep. It turned the detective's insides that even now, even on their first night together, John couldn't find rest. 

He sat up, noticing immediately that the clothes the ex-soldier had neatly folded on the chair were gone. Heaving a deep sigh, he figured that he might as well get up and call his brother – who probably knew where he was but better make sure before he comes storming in and make everything more awkward than it already was. 

However, before Sherlock could reach the bedroom door, he heard footsteps on the stairs leading up to the flat – three sets, one Mrs. Hudson, the other two unknown.

“I've told you, he's not home!”

Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson say distressed and quickly glanced around the room for anything that might help him. His landlady didn't know about his resurrection yet but if push came to shove, he'd risk the shock in order to save her life – again. 

“And I've told you I'd wait for him, Mrs. Hudson, now leave!” The snide voice was completely unknown to Sherlock, but the man appeared to know Mrs. Hudson, and not mean her any harm, however, the detective couldn't be sure the same went for John. “And we'd appreciate if you didn't inform him of our presence.” 

That's it, Sherlock thought, who ever this bloke was, he was not a friend of John. He recognized the sounds of Mrs. Hudson being pushed out of the flat and the door being closed – with some more noise than it used to make. 

“What's now?” Another male voice asked.

“Now we wait.” The first replied, the couch squeaking slightly as he sat down. 

“He might be hours...” the second man said.

“No, he won't. You really think he'll leave his pet alone for too long?” 

Sherlock swallowed and a moment later the door to the bedroom was opened from the outside. A young man about John's height, with dirty blond hair and dark brown eyes stared at him in disbelieve. 

“I thought he's dead!” the boy – Sherlock figured he couldn't be much older than 20, 23 tops – muttered.

“Nope. The readers told me Mycroft Holmes brought news to them, well, not voluntarily.” The man on the couch - tall, dark brown hair, around 40 years old, office worker, hands manicured, no frown lines, expensive suit – said with a grin towards Sherlock. “Really, your brother should know better than to keep secrets from us.”

Sherlock straightened a bit, now at least he had some idea who he was dealing with. Members of circle, here to talk to John – hopefully only talk. 

“It's rude to not introduce yourself, isn't it? Seeing that you seem to know much about me and you're in my flat.” Sherlock said, moving into the living room and past the side kick towards the couch. 

The man on the couch grinned slightly. “Is it your flat? You're dead – dead man don't have flats.” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and assessed the man before him. Ex military, commanding officer, never been in the field. Family money, never really earned his own share. Minor occupation at the circle, granted through relations obviously, medium intelligence but a lot of pretense. Sherlock returned the grin a second later.

“It never ceased to be my flat. And I would appreciate to know who wants to harass my flat mate.”

“Flat mate, now that's cute, isn't it?” The man grinned. “But very well. My name's Jacob McIntyre. You might know-”

“McIntyre Share Holding. Yes, I know your father's company.” Sherlock interrupted. “And I am aware of the scandal a few years back when the soon-to-be CEO almost ruined the company and nearly lost all of the family fortune. Lucky that your father had not yet retired, wasn't it?” 

Jacob's jaw tightened and he threw the blond boy an evil look as he tried not to snicker. 

“Very good, Mr. Holmes. Not exactly very impressive. All that can be researched.” 

“It can,” Sherlock replied, “What can't be researched is that your gift is much less evolved as John's and while you're proud of your gift, you envy John for being more talented. You also disregard your friend over here, although it is very obvious from his stature and the rings under his eyes that he didn't not sleep very well the last couple of nights, which in this context probably means that he has been getting visions, whereas you have been sleeping like the proverbial baby.” He put his hands together behind his back, standing very straight and looking down at Jacob along his nose in a most arrogant and superior fashion. “What is it you want?”

Jacob straightened his chin a little. “The circle is summoning John. I'm here to take him there.”

“I can save you time to wait for him.” Sherlock said confident. “John has no intention of seeing the circle.”

Jacob grinned a little. “So sweet. Only just made it to his bed and you already speak for him. John has been resentful of the circle, that much is true, but he has also been always truthful to our traditions. Why else would he take you to bed?”

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock asked annoyed.

“Oh, he hasn't told you, has he? You know, there's a lot of mystery around the gifts. Nobody truly knows where they come from, or how they work. Much of what is taught to us as gospel are merely rumors passed on for generations and as much as the non gifted world with religion, we have started to question what we've been told. John, however, he might still be oblivious to it all. Quite interesting for a man who's blocking every try to advance in the gifted world, has dedicated himself to the field of medicine.” Jacobs picked at some non-existing lint on his trousers in an effort to appear nonchalant.

“Maybe John simply has a problem with the methods used to achieve that advance.” Sherlock gritted out, his nerves being seriously tested.

“Oh, yes, and in medicine, of course, there has never been any advance on the backs of sick people.” Jacob smirked. “But, you keep to your believe that John's word is all you need. If he actually started to question the concept of the Loved One, you might end up short of a _flat mate_.” 

Sherlock opened his mouth confused, unsure of what Jacob was trying to say, but didn't get a chance to form a question in his mind as the front door fell close and a moment later John appeared in the living room.

His gaze betrayed the fact that Mrs. Hudson had disregarded the demand and had informed John of his unwanted visitors.

“Get out.” He pressed out, obviously already holding on to his temper. “You can tell the circle to fuck off and get out of my home!”

Jacob opened his mouth but before he could say anything, John cut him off. “I don't want to hear it, Jake. I don't care for the bullshit about being concerned about me or my gift. I want you to bugger off and leave us the hell alone!”

Jacob rose from the couch and moved through the living room, coming to a stop right before John, crowding his personal space. “You only make it worse, and you know that. Your little pet means trouble, everybody told you that. Why would a man who sees people die, choose a loved one that constantly puts himself in danger?”

“You don't choose your loved one, Jake, you know that. And even if I had, I wouldn't regret a moment of it.” Although John's words were steady, Sherlock could see the tell tale signs of a lie on his face and it twisted his guts as he realized that John wouldn't have chosen him if he had had the choice.

Sherlock retreated to his mind palace, running through the memories of their first meeting. 

_Old friend of mine, John Watson._

The first time he's heard his name. The first time he'd lain his eyes on him. He remembered the cold look the doctor was giving him while he had read everything that had seemed important at the time within a second's glance. Hair cut, the way he holds himself – military - the cane, the limb, bad when he walks but he seemed to forget about it – psychosomatic, traumatic injury, wounded in action.

It was the moment Sherlock had known that there was something about this man, something most special about this most ordinary appearing man and he had to figure it out. 

John had said that he knew he was in love with him the moment he saw him take that pill, that was just after they had met. Sherlock recalled every time John had denied being his date. At Angelo's _I'm not his date_ – twice, _I'm not actually gay, We're not a couple_... Every time someone assumed that they were more than just friends, John would deny it, would even sound irritated by it. If he truly wanted to be with Sherlock, he wouldn't deny it that hard, would he? Why would he mind if it was what he really wanted?

“...fuckface!” 

The unusually rude swear from John finally brought Sherlock back to reality and he found the flat clean of circle members. His flat mate was pacing the room, obviously cursing himself into a rage fit and oblivious to Sherlock's musings. 

“Is it true?” Sherlock found himself asking and John stopped dead, turning to him with a confused expression.

“Is what true?”

“That you believe that there's something like soul mates and you think I'm yours? Just because that's what you've been taught all your life?” Sherlock found it hard to look at John, as his expression changed from confused to slightly panicked. Apparently John had an idea where this was leading. 

“Sherlock...” he started but the detective cut him off.

“So, you didn't choose to love me, that much I understand, I didn't choose to love you either, but the part about not regretting any of it, that was a lie. You're a horrible liar and you know that!” Sherlock spat out. “You regret being in love with me, and you only follow those feelings because you think it's your destiny and there's nothing you can do about it. Well, let me save you the trouble of going through with something that fate forced on you.” The younger man took off towards the bedroom the get his clothes. He was determined to leave the flat and never come back, but he didn't even make it to the bed before his arm was seized by John and he found himself slammed against the wall. 

“Don't you dare...” John's voice took on a slightly dangerous but also desperate tone. “Don't you dare to let that bastard put something like that in your mind! Yes, Sherlock, I had trouble accepting that I love you. As I said, I'm not gay. I never had feelings like these for a man before and it was a lie that I never regretted meeting you. Do you know when I regretted it? When I saw you jump off that fucking building!” The blogger's voice cracked at the last sentence, letting Sherlock see him vulnerable and bare. “I love you, Sherlock, more than I ever loved anyone ever before and more than I will ever love someone after you. I don't believe in soul mates just because I've been told, I believe in them because I've seen it. I've seen it with my parents, I've seen with my sister and many other people, not just gifted. And I'm feeling it any moment I look at you or even think of you. After you jumped, there was this voice in my head, that nagging feeling that you're not dead. Because if you had truly died, a huge part of me would have died as well.”

John took a deep breath, looking Sherlock straight in the eyes. “Subconsciously, I knew you were still alive, my inner self knew that you were alive and that's the only reason why I'm still here.”

The tension between them was building rapidly and after only seconds it was too much to bear so Sherlock took John's lips in a hard, desperate kiss. It soon turned outright dirty and when they broke away for air, Sherlock rested his forehead against John's.

“I need you, John. Please...I'm back in shape.” 

The taller of the two opened his eyes just in time to see that grin on John's face – that grin he had never seen directed at someone else, that secret grin reserved for him alone that turned him into a bundle of hormones. 

“Doctor's order is that you should be in bed.” John said, his voice low and rough. Just as Sherlock's lip started on a pout, John moved his head in to nip at the protruding lower lip. “Naked.” he added and it was all incentive Sherlock needed to push John towards the bed with his body as his hands were busy discarding of the pyjama he had put on after waking up. 

John wasn't slow to follow suit. His jumper and undershirt went the same way as Sherlock's dressing gown and t-shirt. Hands were touching and groping at every newly displayed inch of skin, the two men pulling each other close, their lips locked in a passionate kiss that never seemed to end. 

Sherlock found his fingers not quite reacting to the commands of his brain as he tried to open John's belt and suddenly he felt the doctor's hands slip into the back on his pyjama pants, cupping his arse and giving it a squeeze.

Their kiss broke as Sherlock let out an embarrassingly loud moan. John's grin just grew wider at this, and he tilted his head to nip at the detective's throat. “Beautiful.” John muttered against Sherlock's heated skin, his breath raising goosebumps. “And all mine.” his lips traced small trails over the pale neck of his lover. 

Sherlock's heart was beating erratic and under any other circumstances he'd be concerned for his health, but the unlimited trust he held in the man currently unraveling him was enough to make him let himself fall. “All yours.” he whispered, his voice almost gone with pleasure and arousal.

There was a low growl, something that sounded dangerous and yet thrilling, from deep within John's chest, and Sherlock felt his pyjama pants fall from his hips and in the same moment he was pushed backwards onto the bed. He lay back, popped up on his elbows, feeling exposed but for once in his life not insecure about his body as John stepped out of his trousers, leaving his pants on for the moment. His eyes were almost black, his pupils dilated to the point where they nearly completely swallowed the blue iris. He crawled onto the bed, on top of Sherlock, his gaze and movement like a predator stalking his prey. 

He lowered his head, kissing Sherlock's hip bone, licking and biting his way upwards until his body fully covered the younger man's and he could reclaim his lips. All that time Sherlock had tried to stay still, surrendering himself to John's apparent expertise. The caresses had turned him inside out, his skin burning where John's lips had touched it.

“It's a fucking wonder...” John muttered as his hand traveled down Sherlock's side, sliding along slightly visible rips.

“What is?” Sherlock asked, his mouth dry from his heavy breathing.

“Such a body and I'm the first to touch it – really touch it. I know others have tried, hell I've seen others try, falling over themselves to come close to you...it makes me wonder, why you chose me to be the one?” John said, his lips never leaving Sherlock's skin as if he'd die of starvation as soon as he lost contact. 

“You're...different.” Sherlock replied, unsure what it was supposed to mean but knowing that it was true. John was different. Nobody has ever been like John, not towards him, not in general. John was like a dream and a nightmare. His greatest hope and biggest fear. He was everything.

“I want to make it worth it.” John muttered, his lips returning to Sherlock's. “I want to make you want it all over again as soon as it's over. I want to make you crave it with every fiber of your being.”

“I already do...” Sherlock stated breathlessly and _oh Lord help me_ it earned him that grin from John.

“I've never done this, so bear with me, ok?” Suddenly the doctor sounded insecure, nervous even and Sherlock tried to think of anything that could take the tension out of his lover.

“It's not like I could compare it to anything.” Apparently it was the wrong thing to say, as John visible bristled, so Sherlock pulled him into another earth shattering kiss and rubbed his hands over John's back to ease away the tension. 

The ex soldier's hands became steady again, leading the way down Sherlock's body for his mouth to follow. Sherlock's mind was still filing away every sensation for later references, every touch, every little difference between John's hands, or John's lips, or John's cheek rough with day-old stubble. The wetness his tongue left on Sherlock's skin and the coolness when breath ghosted over it drove the detective close to insanity. He's never felt like this, never had such a high, never felt so light headed. 

And suddenly his vision went black as his eyes rolled back into his skull. A moist heat engulfed his prick and later he would wonder why he had waited this long to experience something like this, but right at this moment, his mind was absolutely empty except for what John was making him feel. He could hear loud moaning, but he couldn't tell where it was coming from, only to realize a moment later that they were coming from his own mouth. He registered quiet slurping noises and as he followed them, he was presented with the most erotic and obscene picture he had ever seen. John was on his knees, his mouth swallowing as much of Sherlock as he could take without any practice at all, while he was wanking himself off with his left hand. 

“John-” It was as much warning as Sherlock was able to give as the collective impressions of sensation, sound, scent and visual became too much to bear. His testicles drew up, his abdominal muscles tightened and for a blissful moment, his world went white. 

He didn't even really came back to reality, when he felt John settle beside him, pulling the covers over the both of them. 

“I do crave it...” he whispered and more felt than heard John chuckle next to him. 

“Good. Go to sleep, we'll see about it then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interestingly enough, my gay smut seems to have become a little rusty since I started having hetero sex...interesting indeed. Well, at least it's a little something...

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave me something so I know what you think of it. Thank you.


End file.
